Where Is the Edge?
by ShardsofBrokenGlass
Summary: I knew him in high school. Unintentionally got involved, then forgot about him when high school ended and college began. I left it all behind me. Didn't expect to meet him again. But I did. Little did I know what he had become...and who I would become.
1. Wolf Closing In

**A/N: First mulit-chaptered story for me! As you can tell, some of the Spanish language up ahead is not going to be flawless. I've had two meager years.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Jonathan Crane (I wish...). Ames and the rest of the original characters are mine.  
>Rating may change later.<strong>

**THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REVISED.**

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><p><strong>Chapter One: Wolf Closing In<strong>

_Where is the edge of your darkest emotions?_

_Why does it all survive?_

_Where is the light of your deepest devotions?_

_I pray that it's still alive._

_**~Within Temptation, Where Is the Edge?**_

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><p>I've never seen myself as the kind of person who's easily frightened. Or maybe that's just the self-righteous view I have of my own nature. No, I'm not trying to be brave. No, I'm not trying to be a heroine. Er—I just don't get scared. I think. Last time I checked. Forget it; that's a TOTAL lie.<p>

I lean back against my locker, letting my head fall and bang into it. Ah, high school. Everyone's personal little hell on earth. Or at least it is to me. Time could be spent better elsewhere, learning something useful, perhaps. When in my future life or career am I going to use something like algebra anyway?

I feel the gaze of a certain outcast sweep over me, as though sensing my anti-scholarly thoughts. Jonathan Crane observes me from across the hallway, a finger pushing his glasses back up his nose so they sit correctly on his brainy head. Jonathan Crane. Small, gawky, and awkward.

I shudder after he focuses his chilling eyes back onto the book he'd been reading. I've never gotten close enough to him to even know what color his eyes are. But they sure give me the skeeves. Never stopped me from wondering, though. "You are such a weirdo," I mutter under my breath. My personal space feels violated.

"That's not nice at all, Ames," a familiar, chirpy, extremely girly voice states. Hey, Summer.

I roll my eyes and nod at the mega-nerd across the hallway. "Not you. Crane's giving me the creeps." I check to see if he's heard me. He hasn't. But I lower my voice even more, just in case. "The way he just stares at people, like he's analyzing us and taking mental notes. Not cool. Everyone thinks he's a stalker."

To prove my point, I let Summer observe the mysterious Crane turning his gaze on a snuggly couple walking down the hallway, arm in arm. The two of them immediately speed up. "See?"

"We'll talk on the way to Spanish." Summer allows me to grab my hardcover book and workbook before looping her arm through mine and leading me to one of the classes I actually enjoy.

As we walk, I lose Summer's arm and let her stride on ahead of me. I'm not going to be the one to start the conversation. Not that I usually am, but I'm busy watching Summer strut to class, admiring the way she bats her eyelashes at a guy or how she smiles easily at her more popular friends. What I had done to deserve her friendship, I'll never know; I just feel lucky to have it. I'm not popular. I'm the kind of girl who's acknowledged when she's around, but never asked to go out anywhere. I'm simply _there. _Still, it's better than being someone like Jonathan Crane.

Speaking of which, a conversation starter. "Sooo…Jonathan Crane," I say, drawing Summer's attention away from the cute student teacher walking by. "When's he going to become normal and crawl out of his shell?"

"Probably never. I don't think he's gotten over middle school, Ames. But we were only poking a little fun at him, right?" Summer asks, twirling a blonde curl around her finger.

"Right," I agree. "But _you _guys poked fun at him. I never did." But I still stood by and watched the "cool" crowd knock books from his arms, push him around, and call the small kid names. _Four-Eyed Freak, Rail, Johnny Rake…Scarecrow._ It echoes unpleasantly in my mind. His cruel nickname based on his appearance was the one that stuck with him the longest. Always small for his age and painfully skinny with an unkept image that still exists today, Jonathan had been the quiet brainiac, generally rude to anyone who attempted to help or speak to him. An easy target. Still is, and still at the top of our class, too. Though the "Scarecrow" nickname had faded out somewhere after our freshman year. No one really brought it up anymore.

Summer snaps her fingers in front of my face, directing my attention back to her. "Well, any way you look at it, you'd think he'd be over it by now. What kind of person takes those things seriously? I mean, _you _got over it!"

That stings badly, but I fake a smile as I look down at my books. "Yeah, I did." Moments like these really make me want to tell Summer and our "friends" how shallow I really find them all. A lot of them won't be able to walk up during graduation and receive their diplomas. Sad. Partying gets you nowhere.

Thinking back, I guess I had been a bit of an outcast. Names such as _Recluse, Cousin It, _and_ Hermit the Frog_ were often thrown my way and had followed me around for two years. I used to go home crying, but what I went through is still nothing compared to Jonathan's troubles. I know more about them than I should. Not just the ones that take place in school.

He just freaks us out, I guess. I never picked on him myself because I wasn't part of a clique and didn't have the power to do it. But I never stood up for him because I was (and still am) nervous about being thrown into his league. Things need to change. I'm becoming more aware of the fact that I'm getting closer in personality to these people who will never do anything with their lives. But why am I not doing anything to help?

I hate high school.

Conversation between Summer and I stops as we pause outside the Spanish classroom. I look to my right in time to see Jonathan Crane hurry into his Advanced Psychology class. I can't be sure, but I could've sworn his eyes had been drilling holes into the back of my head a few seconds ago. I shiver as Summer and I watch him disappear into the room. He's so strange.

In the spur of the moment, I remember a question that I'd been dying to ask someone. Anyone. Me and my curiosity. The imaginary lightbulb drifting above my head flickers to life with a dying sputter. "Say, Summer?" I ask, tugging on the sleeve of her $150 midriff hoodie.

"Yeah, Ames?"

"What color are Jonathan's eyes?"

A confused look passes over Summer's perfect features; then she wrinkles her cute little ski-jump nose. "What?" Meaning, "Why do you even care?"

"You heard me. I've never gotten close enough to find out." Great. Dumb question. Kill me now.

It doesn't take someone as smart as Crane to figure out that Summer's already looking down on me for even caring about the color of Jonathan's eyes; someone like him doesn't "deserve" that sort of attention, in her opinion. But the blonde humors my foolishness with a snarky sigh. I humbly avoid her gaze.

"Blue."

"Really. Like mine?"

"Much lighter."

"Huh." That's all I want to know. Funny, I would've expected brown because of the way Jonathan's always darkly brooding in a corner somewhere. They'd suit his personality more. I have to see them for myself sometime, if I want to get close enough. The two of us scramble into the classroom before the three-minute-warning bell sounds.

I take my seat in my desk, smack dab front and center. I like this class. Spanish. This room, though (my only complaint), is way too cold. Freezing, actually. I shiver. Sometimes I wonder if our dear teacher is actually a yeti or the Abominable Snowman.

Forgetting the wintry room for a second, I stiffen as an unwelcomed presence slides into the desk next to me. Oh God, no. Gripping the edges of the desk with white-knuckled fingers, I glower at the battered podium placed in the center of the room, praying for the teacher to walk in before Mr. Friendly tries to strike up a conversation. _Ignore him; he isn't there._ Pretending he doesn't exist does not erase the feeling of two leering eyeballs branding themselves into the side of my cranium.

My prayers are answered as Mr. Benedict strides into the room and orders us to take out the worksheets that he'd assigned yesterday. There's a collected, huffy sigh and a few complaints as the class takes out either incomplete or poorly done assignments. Mine's already on my desk. It had been easy, like most of our assignments. Simply translating sentences that include things we've learned before and a few new words or phrases we learned that day. Easy.

"Pass them forward, please," Mr. Benedict commands. More groans. Not correcting in class means that your buddies can't correct your mistakes and give you a passing grade. Doesn't really make a difference to me. "I'll correct them during class and get them back to you by the bell."

A finger prods the back of my head. "Hey, Manson. Papers. My arm's falling asleep."

_I hope it falls off, _my mind spits back, annoyed. I turn around and snatch the papers from a very irritated Destiny Holder. Then again, she's always pissed off about something. Allowing myself a glance at her paper (which is one top of the pile), I'm able to pick out numerous mistakes in spelling and verb conjugation by quickly scanning it. It's really none of my business but still…

"And how are you today?" I look up from the worksheet and see Mr. Benedict, who has his hand out for the assignments I'm holding on to. Caught red-handed. As long as he doesn't say anything about my habit, I won't.

"_Excellente, gracias. ¿Como estás?"_ I ask, handing him the papers. I know the other students are listening, so I can't resist showing off a _little. _Call me an ego-maniac.

The light shines off Mr. Benedict's bald head, matching the gleam in his warm brown eyes. "_Más y menos. Quiero dormir." _

I smile. Typical. Teachers and students are normally exhausted before lunch, being so hungry. We all seem to die when we get to third period. "_A tu casa. No en colegio."_

Mr. Benedict nods his approval. _"Tu accento es muy bueno."_

_ "Gracias," _I respond. Mr. Benedict moves on with one last, toothy smile. I hope I've put the tall man in a good mood today.

Someone coughs. "Showoff," a voice mutters from behind me. Oh, Destiny. Clearly, someone is a bit disgruntled.

I still blush with embarrassment. Perhaps it _had_ been a bit much. What was I trying to prove? Keeping my head down, I stare at the dirty, white surface of my desk, eyes trailing over scratches that have been traced over with pen and pencil, and graffiti. I make out a few sloppy phrases here and there.

…_Kolby Haz Fists…T + C = BABIES…China Gurl…_Those are just some of the cleaner ones.

Then, recently, in pencil. _…J Crane Nomz Dickz…_

My eyebrows go up of their own accord. That does it. Disgusting. People are such pigs. I lick my index finger and furiously scrub it away, not caring what people could think. It just smears, leaving a charcoal grease mark. Thank goodness it hadn't been an engraving. Referring to someone's sexuality is no one's business.

Because of my lack of a boyfriend or any crushes on me in high school, I've seen girls whispering behind manicured fingers about how they suspect I swing the other way, no wonder I'm so ugly, etc. I guess I can relate to Crane in that aspect. I'm not completely oblivious to the "queer" rumors flying around about him. So, yes, I can relate.

I'm as straight as an arrow, thanks very much. No one needs a boyfriend in high school. All they do is take up your time and stand in the way of your goals. Maybe I'll start looking for one when I'm, like, twenty-five. Romance is for the unrealistic. A man will only get in the way of any future career.

Okay, so I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bit of a feminist. In case you haven't been able to pick that out already.

"Miss Manson, I don't allow spacing out in my classroom. Even if you already know the material. Please, set a good example." Mr. Benedict interrupts my self-righteous inner monologue with his scolding tone. The class snickers. I look over to see _Summer _giggling at me. His good opinion of me is lost for the day. I've already put myself at the center of attention, and now, I've just made it worse.

"Sorry, sir. Please continue," I mutter sarcastically. Lucky for once in my life, he doesn't hear me. Yes, I'm prone to daydreaming. That's the price of having a creative mind. I do a helluva lot more thinking than talking. Thus, I am "socially crippled."

Mr. Benedict clears his throat. His voice is all-serious. "As I was saying, I'll get the assignments back to you today. In the mean time, turn to _noventa y uno _in your hardcover books and translate the paragraphs. You can divide up into groups if you wish. This is due at the end of class tomorrow. Begin." I could have it done at the end of class today. There's another swell of grumbling as the class asks each other what page they're on and divides up into groups.

I turn to page 91 in the book and promptly drag my desk back into my little corner, back by the flag of Chile hanging on the wall. I hate pairing up. It slows me down when my other peers ask me questions every thirty seconds on very simple things. Extremely irritating. I settle gingerly back down into my desk after clumsily crushing my foot under its weight.

Getting to work, I breeze through the first paragraph in ten minutes. Alone. With no interruptions. All good things must come to an end, sadly. A timid presence worms its way in front of me, and I glance up to see Kelly Webster standing by my desk, shifting her weight back and forth between her two feet. A very nice girl, but a complete ditz.

"Ames? I sorta have a question…" She trails off, pale green eyes looking at me unsurely. Her voice is one of those pretty, extremely girly voices, one of the ones I wish I had. My ears crawl.

"What, Kelly?" I ask blandly. I think I let a little bit of frustration at being bothered slip into my tone because Kelly flinches and appears even more uncomfortable than she already does, looking past my head to the wall behind me. She's about a size 13, and her form-fitting jeans accentuate her hips and thighs. At least she's pretty. And popular because she's one of those nice girls who are impossibly optimistic and impossible to hate. And she's rich, blessed with a natural fashion sense that I seem to be lacking. I'm happy with a T-shirt, sneakers, and improperly fitting jeans.

Regretting my attitude (for once), I lean forward and fix a mask of contentment on my face. Here it goes. "Erm—I mean…fire away!" My mouth gives a little spasm that I hope turns into a corny, welcoming smile. Fake cheerfulness seems to work on Kelly. She beams.

"Well," she begins, plopping her notebook down on top of my assignments. I inwardly wince at her unintelligible scribble. "Why do we change _'hablar' _to _'hablas'?"_

I hate this. "_'Hablar' _means 'to speak.' To use it in a sentence you need to change the verb form. It depends on who you're addressing. In this case, we are addressing the singular form of 'you.' So we change '_ar' _to '_as' _so it works. See?" I tap my pencil on the paper for good measure. Makes perfect sense.

The happy expression slides off her face, and Kelly furrows her brow, biting her lip. "But _why _do we add the '_as_'? I don't get it." I'm filled with the dreadful urge to run over to the nearest wall and begin banging my head against it.

"Um…because…" I lose my train of thought. Because what? Because that's how you do it? Because it's how we wrote it down in our notes that are supposed to be used as a reference? I've got all that memorized, but not everyone tries as hard…how can she be so dumb? Nervous, my hands begin to shake and I quickly run them through my untamed hair. Help, please. I'm in a little bit of a tight spot here. I want to call out, but instead I look away from Kelly's expectant expression and try to catch Mr. Benedict's eye. When he finally glances at me, I send him a pained look. He understands the situation.

He strides over, yellow shirt straining at a slight muffin top. "Is there a problem?"

"No. Kelly here has a question, and I can't seem to explain it to her enough." That and the fact that I don't really _wan_t to. Tie me to train tracks, shoot me in the head, feed me to the Giant Squid and let it nom on my bones, tell Rorschach that I'm a wanted criminal…anything but have me explain something that I can't explain. I'm not a teacher nor do I ever want to become one.

"I can help. Kelly, come on over to my desk." He's in a serious mood today. Normally, he cracks jokes left and right and makes fun of a few good-natured students. Not today. In addition to all Spanish classes, Mr. Benedict also has the freshmen English class, and they are currently reading _Romeo and Juliet. _I wonder if he had a bunch of grief earlier.

Unable to contain myself, I make a shooing motion with my hands. "Go on, Kelly. Don't mind me."

"Oh, but…" She purses her full lips and looks more confused than ever. I feel a strong surge of pity for the brunette airhead. She could've made a great blonde. By some heaven-sent miracle, she wanders off to Mr. Benedict without any more protests.

I slump back into my seat, relieved. Free at last. I glance at the clock hanging on the wall next to the chalkboard. Black hands and numbers give me the time. I let my head fall onto my desk, rubbing my temples with strained fingers. Well, there just went ten minutes of my life…

Maybe I can get the second paragraph (which is quite a bit longer) done in twenty minutes. To leave me with about thirty for reading time, of course. Just twenty minutes alone; that's all I'm asking. I take up the pencil in my hand, ready to begin.

"Hi, Ames."

That freaking voice. The one that always makes me feel like someone's rubbing grains of sand into my ears. That just annoys you to death and make you want to painfully murder the owner. I had forgotten about Mr. Friendly, completely oblivious as he slid his desk next to mine. God hates me.

Surprisingly (ha), I don't respond, finding that I'm unable to. I'm frozen, my head pounding and heat creeping its way up to my face as I stare blankly down at my handwriting on the notebook paper. I still write in cursive, something we were taught in 3rd grade and something most of my classmates abandoned once they reached the freedom of high school. I'm considered weird, one of the ones that carried it with me._ But it's so much faster than printing. _And my printing looks like it belongs to a hyper six-year-old.

Mr. Friendly, a.k.a. Paul Rubin, isn't fazed by my lack of an answer. Instead, he draws power from it, like a leech, and leans in closer, his bleached blonde hair swept off to the side, bangs completely covering his forehead and part of one eye. "You're really pretty, Ames," he whispers creepily, leering. Bite me, buster.

"Get lost," I manage to hiss through gritted teeth. _Don't look at him. _He smiles triumphantly, revealing yellowing teeth in the middle of an overly cute, zitty face. I can't stand the sight of him.

"Aw, what's wrong, Ames? Don't you like me? I like you. Aren't we friends?" Hell, no. Why won't this stupid, oozing sophomore leave me alone? Yep. A sophomore. Attempting to hit on (or stalk) a junior girl. Really, for the fourth time this week, too!

"Leave me alone," I whisper, breaking and trying not to look into greedy, blue eyes, but giving him a loathing, sidelong glare that promised a painful death. Of course, he mistakes it for a flirtatious look. What have I done to offend Lady Luck lately?

"But I like you." Ugh, his voice! It's too smooth, and he has a lisp that most girls think sounds cute, but to me, just makes him sound like an idiot, like he's a stoner or he can't quite get his tongue around the words he's saying. Judging by his attitude, voice, and personality, I believe that he really _does _have real mental issues, like he's slow or something. He falls asleep in class, has been arrested as a runaway twice, charged with minor assault, and a few drug accounts. There also might be a restraining order in there. He's a monster, and I'm just a poor doll in his greasy, 10th grade hands.

"I'll get the teacher over here. So stop harassing me." I sound like I'm going to tattle on him. Which I might.

Paul snickers and touches my elbow with a finger. I snatch it away like he's contaminated, which he is. Dirty-minded, a total player… "I could be asking you for help. You're so smart, Ames. My girl. What would Mr. Benedict think?" He tuts coyly. Said teacher isn't paying attention.

There's no hope. I cross my arms and begin to sweat. He touched me. The damned bastard actually TOUCHED me! With one of his slimy fingers, at that. Who knows where it's been? Trembling and with my head on fire, I glance to my left, across the room. I swear this'll be the last time I ever sit in a corner by myself. Summer catches my panicked eyes. She's sitting prettily with her pretty little friends in their own pretty little bubble, the friends with pretty little names like "Katie" and "Annette" and "Naomi." They all look entertained.

Summer does nothing to help me with my situation; she just sits and watches me squirm. Some "friend." Why do I hang onto her?

My eyes brim with tears as Paul continues my torment in that taunting tone. "Hey, Ames. Why didn't we make brownies over the weekend like I said we would?"

That had been his request last Friday. I'd hoped he'd forgotten about it. But no such luck. These things always come back to haunt _me. _Crossing and recrossing my legs, I try to pull myself together, but fail miserably, taking in a shuddering breath.

"We're going to get together tonight and make cookies! How 'bout that? Yes, we will. M&M cookies." An intense grin. He's getting to me, closer into my personal space, and knows it, enjoys it. I'm almost over the edge, torn between bolting for the door with a vomiting excuse and spontaneous suicide. Tough call. My stomach grumbles, extra loudly, just to add to the effect. Paul smirks.

My voice shakes. "I have to work…" I sound weak, pathetic, faint. I hate it. I hate life and I hate this horrible feeling of being trapped, of feeling claustrophobic in an open room. A droplet of moisture leaks over my lower lid and slides down my burning cheek.

Paul sees that and takes advantage once again. "Aw, am I scaring you? Don't cry. Here, I'll make it all better. I like your thighs, Ames. You're so pretty. You have very nice eyes." They are taunts from his mouth, not compliments. He's too close now, his stale breath ghosting over my right ear. "Feeling better?"

I've lost all control of the situation, if I had any to begin with. Thoroughly harassed as Paul rapes my circle of grace. I don't move when he slides a rough hand up my forearm. I can't move. I'm lost. And no one will rescue me. I'm not "popular" enough or that cared about. I have the oddest sensation of sinking into a deep pit before something snaps. I feel…darker. Overwhelmed.

Not the one in control of my own body, I raise a hand and latch on to Paul's own touchy-feely appendage, biting down on my quivering lower lip. I grip it. Hard. The cocky smile fades from his face. I want to break his fingers. Smiling at him, now calm, I whisper, "You know, I really meant it when I said 'get lost'." This voice is not mine. Too intense, too heavy, too calm. Paul falters, unsure.

"Hey, Paul! Do you get this assignment? 'Cuz I sure don't!" It's Kelly, my savior. Her cheerful tone distracts the bane of my existence for an instant, giving me a few seconds to spring out of my seat and drag my desk over to Summer's group, who surprisingly make room for me. Kelly isn't as much of a ditz as I'd thought. The nice one forever, she must've seen my troubles from her place at Mr. Benedict's desk. The teacher himself didn't notice anything happening _right in front of his nose. _Paul's very careful.

"Are you ok, Ames?" Naomi, the nicest of Summer's pals, asks me, looking worried.

Whatever has given me the brief moments of confidence has disappeared. Now I feel the same as I did before. I bury my head into my arms. "I'm fine. Peachy. Never been better." It all comes out muffled. I sound dead.

Naomi offers a sympathetic smile. "I went through it with him, too. Don't worry about it; he'll get bored." She pats my arm. I want to argue back, like a child, but I've lost all my drive. Maybe lunch will help… I risk a shifty look over at Paul, who is still occupied with Kelly. Man, that girl can adapt and put up with anyone! She's all friendly, sweet smiles and positive attitude. Why isn't she a cheerleader?

I wince. Lord, protect her.

The round clock tells me there is ten scrawny minutes left in class. No reading today. I surge through the translation of the second paragraph, unable to focus enough to do quality work. Slamming the book shut, I decide that I'll just have homework tonight, in addition to work. A nearly sleepless night.

For the last two minutes of class, I listen (without interest) to Summer's group titter about drama and designer clothes and hunky boys, keeping my head down, resting it on my arms. Without warning, my stomach roars loudly enough for the whole room to hear. I blush. Paul looks over at me, distracted from Kelly's chattering, and winks. I shudder and nearly freak again. Crane's got nothing on this kid. His problems terrify me.

"Dismissed." Mr. Benedict's sharp voice rings through the air. It takes me eight seconds to realize the lunch bell just rang. "You'll get your assignments back tomorrow. I apologize. I was being…distracted." Kelly flushes gracefully. "_Hasta luego."_

I swear I see Paul take a few steps at me. Finally, I grab all my things and run away, making a mad dash for the door. No way in hell will he get me. Screw what I said way earlier; I _do _get frightened out of my wits _and_ get paranoid easily. I burst into the hallway, getting swept up in the mass of rushing students. I feel like a salmon trying to swim upstream, but I'm free. I'm able to breathe properly, feeling lighter. Paul is gone (for now), and I can move on to other things. I throw my books into my locker

"_Rrrorrrgh." _My stomach is now eating itself. I gaze down at it mournfully, wincing at the noise. I need comfort. I need food. I need comfort food. Hell…I need chocolate milk. Lots of it.

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><p><strong>AN: As you may or not be able to tell, Ames has quite a bit of growing up to do in this story. And it takes a long time. A LONG TIME. But hopefully, like many others you'll come to love her a bit. Well, there's one down. Please R&R. I'm going to continue this story, regardless of reviews or not. I won't stop. Updates may be a while, for I prefer to write the stories down in a notebook first before I type it out. I like to see how much I've written and be pleasantly surprised.**

**Unfortunately, this story is doomed to continue at a slow-moving pace.**

**I will apologize if any of the views Ames has offends people. I'm sorry; it's just her nature. These are not personal views of mine. Sorry for any gramatical errors you happen to spot. I edit my own work, and I went through it three times. Believe me, this could be a tough read because there are so many Crane/OC fics out there. But give it a chance, please. I will not give up on this story!**

**I think that's all. Thanks to all who R&R. You are lovely, awesomesauce people! More Crane next chapter!**


	2. Good Neighbors

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, added to favorites, or added this to alerts. It does wonders for an author's confidence. YOU ALL ROCK.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Jonathan Crane. (Oh Cillian...) I also do not own any lyrics that pop up in this story. The lyrics later come from Dead or Alive, not the thing Flo-Rida cranked out. I'm sorry for grammatical errors if you come across any. The spell check on our Microsoft Word has recently become deceased. I blame my father.**

**THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REVISED.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Good Neighbors<strong>

_So, there you were, alone with those ablazing eyes,_

_Like an angel brought to life; you have my destiny._

_I'm free!  
><em>

_You are my saviour!  
><em>

_I'm free!  
><em>

_You are my guiding star; all I need is you._

_** ~Dead By April, My Saviour**_

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><p>The lunchroom is buzzing with drama and hyperactive talk when I finally make it through the maroon double-doors. The lunch attendants (just regular teachers, really) are scattered throughout the lunchroom, arms crossed and keeping an eye out for bullying or for anyone trying to cut school by attempting to escape through the front doors, which are locked, of course. One can't be too careful in a city like Gotham. I wonder how many of our teachers <em>were<em> police officers or had gone through all the training necessary to become one. Yup, our teachers are pretty top-notch in the defensive category, actual teaching ability aside. Doesn't seem to matter all that much anymore. Just safety first.

I slip (unnoticed) into the lunch line that snakes out of a small doorway. Beyond that doorway is the food, served by our gracious lunch ladies: Beth, Pat, and Ursula. We get three choices for lunch; today's happens to be chicken nuggets, goulash, or a sub sandwich/wrap. I know it doesn't sound that horrible, but believe me; it is. All of the meal is leftovers from last week, I'm sure. They incorporate chicken nuggets into _everything. _The line continues to the cooler (where we grab our milks), the salad bar, and the checkout before leading out of this secluded back room and into the lunchroom.

After watching a few senior guys threatening to beat up a dumb freshman who thought he could cut to the front of the line, I decide to listen to gossip that includes brand new news on events that happened over the weekend, as well as on Monday and Tuesday night, all the while being crushed against the wall by five people. The kitchen has filled the lunchroom with the ungodly stench of B.O, oil, and salt.

"Did you hear that she—"

"…forced her to…"

"—drove into the ditch."

"—got nailed by—"

"He was busted…"

"…Mom's freaking out—"

"…shorter, at least."

Same old, same old. Will people ever learn? One night of stupidity can ruin your life. Which is why I spend weekends up in my room. I suppose if I'm asked to go party somewhere (it will never happen), I would. Minus the drugs, the drinking, and sex with people I don't know. It's gotta be that driving, unrelentless need to _belong. _My head spins and I clap my hands to my temples. Great, now I'm confusing myself. I have all these just, strong ideals that I plan on acting out, but lack the will and drive to do so. Gah, I'm pathetic; full of fake promises. A wimp. It's tearing me apart, little by little. Maybe I need to re-think my life a little.

"Nuggets or goulash?" A gruff voice tears me away from my painful thoughts. I shuffle forward sheepishly and smile timidly at Ursula, who's waving around a giant serving spoon like a weapon. The other two ladies stand beside her at their stations. Yikes, they look ready to go to war or something. I bet they were prison guards at one point… The sweat smell is stronger now. Ugh, the food! I resist the urge to pinch my nose shut.

I creep closer to the stainless steel counter, peer into the vat of bubbling goulash, decide that it looks like something an overstuffed bird regurgitated, and hurriedly request, "Chicken nuggets, please." My stomach rolls, making the choice seem ominous.

_Plop. Thunk. Splat. Doink. Tick. _There is no facial expression from Ursula as she drops five, overly crispy or soggy nuggets onto the green marbled tray. They will also be making an appearance in the chicken fajitas later this week. A decent white bun and mashed potatoes straight from the box soon join them. Because having potatoes as a sidedish to _goulash _makes a whole lotta sense…

"Thanks a bunch," I croak out, not sure if I want to eat anymore. Ah, cafeteria food! The jerk behind me kicks the back of my calf to get me to move forward. I grab the plastic tray from the counter and hightail it over to the milk cooler to avoid being beat to a pulp. It doesn't matter that I'm a girl; I still have bruiseable skin that can be used as an unpleasant reminder of a lesson well-learned. The heavy, metal lid of the cooler is propped up to show choices of 1% white milk, skim white milk, or skim chocolate milk. Normally, I go for the skim white, but all of them still taste like water with powder added. At least they're cold. I reach in and snag a cartoon of chocolate milk, and then on impulse grab two more. Setting them on my tray (one on top of the nuggets), I do mental calculations. The extra milk adds about $1.50 to the bill. Well, I will have enough to cover this, but I'll lose my soda from the junky vending machine after school…who am I kidding? I freaking need these after my uncomfortable, draining experience in Spanish.

_Hurry up, buddy, _my mind spits out at the burly guy who's eating nearly the whole salad bar by himself. The pudding is long gone, inhaled by the jocks before me. This dude in front of me has _more _than enoughfood. It's his money, but I'm sure half of the meal will end up in the trash. You know, one of those people who tries to take everything from other people to satisfy himself. He scratches his head stupidly, trying to decide what else he can cram down his greedy gullet. I want to scream at him to start booking it, but I'd die. This guy can, like, kill me. He's huge. So I leave him alone, and wait for the golden, untouched pineapple to come into view. Why does everyone hate it? I'm sure it would remind most of them of piña colodas… Best thing about our salad bar is that it's free (who'da thunk it?) and is the best opportunity to get your fill of food if your mom/dad can't cook or your home life sucks, which is the case with about two-thirds of the student body at Gotham High.

Spooning myself some of that yellow glory, I hope that the batch this week is better than the one from last week. I reach into the butter container and spread some onto my bun with the extremely blunt knife. It makes my hands incredibly greasy. Some idiot smeared butter on the handle to make life more difficult for the rest of us. The salt and pepper are my next stop; then the ketchup squirts onto my plate with the sound of spontaneous flatulence before I sadly hand over my extra $1.50 at the checkout. Probably won't even drink the third. But, hey; it is comfort liquid to me.

I emerge back into life with a greedy gulp of semi-fresh air. The B.O. stench of oil and salt is less prominent out here; you should smell what it does to the locker rooms around 11 o'clock. Let's just say that expired sardines slathered in expired Mayo and stuffed up both your nostrils would be more pleasant.

A muffled thumping sound makes me stare at one of the huge blue trashcans at the perimeter of the lunchroom, next to the two water fountains. What the heck? A closer look reveals a pair of skinny legs clad in tattered dress slacks sticking out of the top. I let loose a whoosh of breath, my eyes widening. Holy shit! Did they actually dump a kid in there? I thought that was a movie thing! Poor nerd. Well, the lunch attendants certainly didn't catch _this _one. Bullies can be very sneaky when they want to. Bastards and bitches. All of them.

I approach the can carefully and timidly tap on the sole of a black dress shoe. The thrashing ceases momentarily. The guy (I'm assuming it's a guy; I can't see his face) lets out a pained and humiliated groan. I clear my throat. "Um, excuse me. Do you need help?" I have a penchant for asking dumb questions. Way to go, Captain Obvious.

The response is immediate. "No. Go on about your business." It _is _a guy. And his voice is cool, smooth, and sarcastic, startingly mature and intelligent. I pause. "I asked you to leave." There's that tone again, like he's explaining something to a three-year-old child. How rude.

"Have it your way, then." I slap my hands on my thighs and leave the poor kid in his misery. He hadn't wanted help…it's his problem now. "Just showing I care and all that," I throw back over my shoulder, irritated. The thrashing, squirming, and struggling continues. The only way he's getting out of this pickle is if he knocks the trash over, which (by the way he's headed) is what he's aiming for. How am I supposed to become the person I want to if everyone refuses help? There has to be other options.

I walk my usual route toward the round tables; nearly all are full. I spot Summer and our pals whispering and giggling as a senior named Craig tells an animated story and snakes a hand across Summer's back. That girl has a new guy every other week, I swear. I wonder if Craig threw the unpopular guy into the garbage can; he certainly looks strong enough to do so. There is still a chair available, a seat usually saved for me. I start toward it, and then freeze. A nagging voice that exists inside my head tells me that if I want to really separate myself from _that _crowd of bastards and bitches (like they even paid attention to me anyway), this would be a great place to start. Is fitting in worth it to become one of _them? _Someone who throws their life away and degrades others to make themselves feel _good? _Do I want to become _that? _No. But I still hover awkwardly between two tables, undecided. Then Craig whispers something in Summer's ear, making her giggle foolishly. He takes my seat. Right. Well. There goes that option.

Stalking right past them, I spy an unoccupied table in the vicinity of the vending machines. It's unusual to find one empty. I could swear someone usually sits here; maybe they're sick today. I reach the table, which happens to be positioned next to the glass doors, providing a rare ray of sunlight to hit my face and a very nice view of the cruddy parking lot. The chatter and gossip seems to be fainter, quieter over here. It's rather nice. Peaceful. Why didn't I discover this seat before? Junior year's almost over, but I suppose I can sit here senior year, too. I'll make the most of it. A a bigger thump resounds from the other end of the lunchroom, which I ignore.

"Time to relax," I murmur to myself, sitting down and stretching out lazily. Half an hour to eat. The first thing I do is grab the first carton of chocolate milk and chug it needily, wincing at the weak taste. But it's chocolate. It's chocolate. "_You spin me right round, baby, right round. Like a record, baby. Right round, round, round." _Now I'm singing to beverages…

Footsteps, which could be classified as irritated stomping if they weren't so hesitant, make me jump out of my freaking skin. I need to stop this daydreaming habit. It only gets me surprised. The sound of a throat being cleared snaps me to attention.

"Excuse me, but you are seated at _my _table."

"Sod you." I have no clue why British insults are coming to mind. This jerk, for how pretty his words are, is not very polite. Not _my seat. _Or _my chair. My table, _he'd said. Then it hits me. That tone. I heard it ten minutes ago! Even, intellectual, chilling, arrogant. The garbage kid! I look up to congratulate him on his success and stop, my mouth hanging open in shock. I should've known. My pulse thuds in my ears. Oh, the freak. The mega-nerd.

More specifically, Jonathan Crane is glaring down at me with an intense gaze that makes me want to curl up and die. I'm sitting at _his _table. Crane's? Oh god. To add to the current situation, he has bits of food stuck in his overlong, greasy chestnut hair. How unfortunate that we had goulash today… It's stained his already raggedy sweater vest and black trousers, both of which are baggy on his thin frame. _Scarecrow. Scarecrow. _Old haunts. Come to think of it (even at a distance) I don't think I've ever seen Crane in jeans, shorts, or sweatpants. But I do have an idea _why_.

He doesn't respond to my "insult".

It isn't the clothes or his presence that renders me unresponsive, though. It's the eyes.

Summer hadn't elaborated enough for me to be ready for their full impact. I'd thought they'd be nothing extraordinary, dull and watery, perhaps. I've never been closer than fifteen feet away from him, and now Crane is standing right in front of me. I sit, absolutely transfixed. And stare. They are blue, like Summer said, but she hadn't told me just _how _blue. They are vibrant, electric, like two blue lasers scorching through my weak soul. Hidden by owlish glasses. The rest of Jonathan's features are hidden by his hair, but I see enough to discern that he's pale with a few acne problems. If I were to stand up, Crane would be a full five or six inches shorter than me, and I stopped growing once I'd hit five-foot-eleven. I get the impression of being put through an X-ray, so I focus on Crane's gaze again. The glasses make him seem like he's ogling at you, but those eyes…are beautiful. Possibly the only beautiful thing about him. So pure a color. But his general iciness overcomes any beauty, and that frightens me most of all. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul…and so his soul is cold. Hateful.

And I know why. Oh Lord, I know why.

Crane's face is a carefully composed mask as he analyzes me. He seems so distant. This guy doesn't need people for company; he's perfectly happy with himself and his mind. I know he could've skipped a grade or two and graduated ahead of us, but chose to stay back to avoid drawing more attention to himself. Perhaps most likely, his grandmother would've seen it as a sign of vanity, and that thought alone could've done the trick. But the kid is a genius, and I'm sure my reputation is screwed just by being near him (much less sitting down at his table; there _are _a lot of stares eyeballing us now), so I figure: what the hell? I'll be friendly. Say hello. Be a better person.

"I guess what I meant was…sit down. Please," I add as an afterthought. Jonathan seems skeptical and raises a dark eyebrow. My forwardness might have scared him off if it wasn't for the fact that there's nowhere else to sit without being tormented. And I'm just plain sitting at his table. Here we are: two outcasts. How perfect. I wonder if I'm quite possibly bipolar; I've gone from wanting nothing to do with Crane to trying to be his best buddy in ten seconds flat.

But to my great surprise, Crane chooses not to defend his territory and sits down in the chair opposite me with a stiff nod. Time freezes, and the resulting awkward silence that springs up between us is deafening. I open another milk carton (I know he's looking at them) and nibble on an overcooked nugget as I observe what Crane has on his own tray. Smart choice, going with the nuggets and…sweet merciful crap…are those pineapple chunks sitting there? I choke on my weak milk with a strangled noise of surprise and point at them.

"Hey, all right! You like pineapple, too!" I blurt out weakly, still coughing up the last dregs of liquid. I want to smack myself squarely in the face for such a stupid and desperate attempt at conversation as soon as the words come out of my babbling mouth. Idiot.

Crane's eyebrow goes up again as I sneak a peek at his reaction, and I look away from his electrifying gaze that's bound to make me feel like a first-class idiot. No doubt he already thinks I'm just another mindless brunette trying to find her place in the world. Cynical bastard, isn't he? Damn you, Profiling! Is he refusing to speak at all or are my communication skills really that bad?

I slump back into my small chair with an exasperated sigh. Time to try again. Now, I steel myself and meet his eyes full on, blue against blue. "Let's start over. I'm Ames Manson." I hold a hand out across the table, introducing myself. Crane ogles at it a few seconds before merely nodding at me again. Is he afraid of getting cooties? It's just a handshake! He pushes his glasses back up his nose with his index finger. I notice that his hand is surprisingly fine-boned and wonder if his pale skin is as cold as it looks.

"I'm—" he starts coolly, hardening.

"—Jonathan Crane," I finish for him, not quite interrupting. "Yes, I know. I've seen you before." Well, duh. I pause here to finish chugging my second milk. Here it goes. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. "I'm your…" I trail off.

"…neighbor," he finishes for me. "Yes, I know." I hope all that stuff people say about finishing each other's sentences isn't true… Jonathan's intelligent voice is as shocking as his eyes; definitely not the wimpy, pre-pubescent squeak I'd been expecting. "You did look familiar."

"Yeah. I suppose that's a good thing." Haven't quite broken the ice yet. I return to my abandoned chicken nugget, swallow the rest, and start on another. This one's soggy.

Yes. If you haven't figured it out already, Jonathan Crane and I are neighbors. Meaning we both live on the same stretch of country road a few miles outside Gotham City. Our houses are about an eighth of a mile apart. Not that far, but close enough for me to hear _everything _that goes on. We're neighbors. That's how I know.

I know about a lot of his problems. That he was conceived out of wedlock. The event threw his witch of a grandmother (who's "devoutly religious") into a frenzy that she's never come out of. Believe me, I can hear her awful, crackly screeching all night. All about how Crane is the spawn of Satan and calling his mother a whore and saying she hadn't wanted him and no wonder, and yadda, yadda, yadda. But sometimes, I hear his pained cries. I still don't know what she does to him. Seriously, a seventeen-year-old guy (no matter how scrawny) against an old woman. Who'd win, you'd think? Mom won't call the cops; she feels that it's none of our business, so I bear it. You'd think I would've had more sympathy for him earlier. His grandmother probably treats that creaky old farmhouse and the red barn next to it to an exorcism or a sprinkling rite every weekend. I have the sudden urge to ask Jonathan just how many times he's been hit with holy water.

"I've seen you before." Jonathan's smooth tone snaps me out of my reverie. "I walk past your house every day around five o'clock." He is a creep. Jonathan sees my wary expression. "To get the mail?" he suggests slowly. Aw geez…that's right. Both our mailboxes are located at the end of our gravel road. I've seen him walking by on many occasions. That tone of his is back.

"Oh." Intelligent, Ames. Really?

He lets loose a humorless chuckle, tapping his fingers on the table. "You go outside quite a bit. I've heard you talking to yourself many times. Singing." Crane smirks and states, deadpan, "Possibly schizophrenic?"

My mouth falls open. He's diagnosing me. The man is _diagnosing_ me! "I'm rehearsing!" I defend my actions, face hot as I blush for the millionth time that day. There's nothing to rehearse for right now, though.

"Rehearsing?" Ugh, he has to ask. Nosy little… I have to explain this to _Crane _of all people? He will disapprove. I stuff down the rest of the soggy chicken nugget, gag, and start on my bland mashed potatoes to delay giving an answer.

When I do answer, it's a simple "I'm on the stage." I jab my spoon of runny potatoes into the air for emphasis. "It's my future career, my passion."

"Fame and fortune, then?" A knowing look tossed my way. He's smug!

He's just like the rest of them! I don't like him. I slap my hand down on the table in frustration, receiving a glare from one of the janitors passing through the lunchroom at that exact time. "Fame and fortune mean little to me. I do it because I love it. Adore it. Becoming someone else."

Of course, he responds to my hot defense with a question. "What's wrong with who you are?"

…

…?

Holy— is he my freakin' therapist now? Both of us are in casual, comfortable positions (him settled back in his chair; me leaning forward slightly), and Jonathan's giving me an intent look that makes me want to spill out my guts to him. It's working. Suddenly, I'm telling my hopes and dreams to a guy this scientifically grounded? Yes, he is creepy. Creepy Crane. But a stalker? No. Just observant. Picking apart my brain. His expression changes. Now, he's giving me the hard, calculating look that puts me under the impression that he's peeling back the layers of my soul with his eyes. I wanna crawl into the earth and be digested by worms. Be anywhere but here, at least. Crane is too smug, too intense. He makes my skin crawl.

Is he a queer, I wonder…?

Once again, I take refuge in food, delving into the pineapple with the same spoon used for my potatoes. My stomach rolls, and I feel nauseous as I become more aware of the fact that I'm under his scrutiny.

Spontaneous outburst. "Stop doing that!" I hiss at him. A lunch attendant glances our way.

Crane jerks out of his analyzing with an oh-so-innocent double-take. "Doing what, exactly?" His tone says that he knows precisely what he's doing.

"Looking at me!" A smirk crosses his face. God, it's too hot in here. Moaning, I put my spoon down and lean forward with a great belch. I feel awful, the result of the extreme combo of intensity and bad cafeteria food. "Murder me, please." Softer, now. Begging him for mercy. Oh, it had to have been the chicken… I'll choose bird throw-up over lunchroom chicken any day now.

"Ames? What is the matter?" Crane is unconcerned, as far as I can tell by his bored and lazy tone; he's just asking about my condition to give himself the appearance of a "good neighbor." Keep up the act, mister. He examines one of his nails with an air of arrogance.

Sweat pricks my forehead, and I place it against the cool table again. Self-superior as he is: _I kinda like him saying my name…_ I snap out of it. _You're delirious, girl. Focus on your gut. _Am I so desperate that I would be attracted to the sound of Crane's voice of all things? I voice my thoughts. "I'm gonna puke."

Crane scowls at me and adjusts his glasses. "Please don't say 'puke.' It's vulgar. And crude. Say 'vomit.'"

"Puke." Why he still feels the need to correct people in a situation like this astounds me. My vision is fuzzy as I glance up see Crane making absolutely no attempt to help me, long hair hanging in his eyes. Well, isn't he a gentleman… _Please, god_, _let me not pass out in front of him. _"I think I have food poisoning. Maybe salmonella." I cry weakly, tears leaking out of my eyes from the sharp pains to my stomach that have suddenly become present. These are worse than any cramps any female has ever had. On a scale from one to ten, I'd give it a twelve. I double over and fold my arms over my abdomen.

_Now _Crane stands up slowly, and I attempt to rise up with him in alarm as he stoutly states, "Don't be a baby. I'll take you to the nurse's office. The bell for fourth class rings in approximately ten minutes." Still unconcerned, the cold bastard. I don't want help from _him_ if he doesn't want to do it. So, I shake my head back and forth violently, refusing. I think that surprises him a little. Standing now, I can see, dizzily though, that I am in fact five inches (more or less) taller than Jonathan Crane.

"No, no, no, no," I insist weakly, sarcastically. "Don't trouble yourself." Why is the room spinning? I grope at the items of my remaining meal, seizing the bun, the last milk, and the other three nuggets. Shoving them across the table at him, I whimper, "Here. Take it. You look like you need it." I'm giving food to an idiot who refuses to help people (while insulting them) because of his own personal grudges? Plus, I'd managed to throw one last "insult" into his face, commenting on his thin frame. Must be my kind heart…

My tummy lurches again. "Harumph!" I clap a hand to my mouth and leave a finally silenced Crane behind as I make a mad dash for the girl's bathroom, god-sent because it's located _in _the lunchroom. Washing hands before meals and all that. My giving Crane food had three reasons, I suppose. One: his grandmother probably never fed him enough, so he had to scrounge for himself. Two: I just plain hadn't wanted it anymore. Three: maybe (even though he already had them), he'd eat the rest of the chicken (doubtful) and get violently sick. I wish a thousand curses upon him for all of his jerkiness, questioning, and analyzing. A small revenge, if I get lucky.

I make it to the first stall in the nick of time and collapse in front of the porcelain throne, the hard cool tiles pressing into my kneecaps. I gag. There goes lunch…and breakfast. Feeling slightly better, I breathe deeply and rest my head on the toilet seat (gross, I know; but it's so cold!) and fumble for the handle so I can flush my mess away. I stay kneeling for two minutes, and then lie on the bathroom floor for the remaining eight. Too bad recovery isn't instantaneous.

When the bell finally does ring, it resonates deep in my ears, increasing the power of an oncoming headache. I wince, unable to find the will to move from my spot on the cool floor. But I drag myself up anyway. I stumble over to the sink and turn it on, splashing myself with cold water. "Ah…it's so much better," I mumble incoherently. Peeking into the mirror hanging over the sink, I decide I look like a pile of shit, even more so than usual. Pasty pale, hair and red T-shirt soaking wet, eyes bleak, body slumped over. I can't make it to fourth class. No way, no how. It's Home Ec., fairly easy, but I do need to finish up that fleece jacket I'm making… Oh, well. Mrs. Tomalin will have to deal.

The pains are gone. Stomach now calm and nausea subsiding, I attempt to straighten out my body and my thoughts. Jonathan Crane hadn't been what I expected, in all these years of being in his class and living close to him. He is cold, and more confident and opinionated than I'd thought. Smart, but he somewhat (all right, barely) hid it for the sake of everyone else. _Seemingly easy to talk to. _Or to argue with, at least. And he'd turned out okay, after all those years of teasing. He's just whispered about and avoided now. Again, why had I never stood up for him?

He had been very rude, arrogant, and smug, smirking whenever he'd gotten the chance. Then again, I'd given him a reason to, invading his personal space. It's a good reason for all his general unfriendliness. People do it to him all the time. At least he knows me now. But Jonathan's high-frequency blue eyes had been _very _unexpected. Chilling as the grave, they were. Just like him, I decide. He's a jerk. But I will deal with it. I'm not going to budge and be scared away by an antisocial personality. Crane's nothing. And I _don't_ like him.

I've told career fantasies to the most avoided guy in school and had gotten food poisoning from a bad chicken nugget (nuggets?) all in one day. Story of my life. Speaking of which…

With one last disgusted glance into the mirror, I leave the bathroom and head to the nurse's office.

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><p><strong>AN: Again, doomed to progress slowly.**

**So there's chapter number two! I'm not quitting this story because I'm writing it mainly for my personal benefit. I haven't quite figured out a timeline yet, but so far the high school stuff is taking place in the 90's. Will get an exact timeline soon. If you folks are wondering about the choice of the title for this story, check out the lyrics to "Where is the Edge?" by Within Temptation. Flawless song, and it seems so perfect for the story of an OC and Crane. Hope you agree. I also figured that making Crane Ames' neighbor would make it easier for them to interact outside of school at some points and also to get a little bit of background together. If Ames' thoughts are confusing you or she seems to have random mood swings and thought changes, I'm sorry. She's trying to sort herself out right now. You all know how high school is.**

**Share this story, add, review, and keep following. I LOVE YOU ALL. (Crane does too, in his own twisted little way).**


	3. Home Again, Home Again

**A/N: Hey people! **

**_Muchos __gracias _to **Comidia Del Arte, Silential, ForgetTheFall, pourquoibella, naturally morbid, Shadow Rose, Madness is me, Linale Ashley M, Firespin98, **and** ninjapoke** for reviews. This also goes out to anyone who added me to favorites/alerts.**

**You will NOT plagarize because if you do, I will: Hunt. You. Down...and Scarecrow will nail you with his fear toxin XD**

**Disclaimer: We all friends. Me no own. You no sue. Have no money. Vultures.**

**THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REVISED.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: Home Again, Home Again<strong>

_Where have all the feelings gone?_

_Why has all the laughter ceased?_

_Why am I loved only when I'm gone?_

_Gone back in time to bless the child._

_**~Nightwish, Bless the Child**_

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><p>It takes me a grand total of twenty minutes to stumble into the nurse's office. That's including all the times I had to fight off nausea and stop along the way, you know, to avoid hacking up my guts all over the walls and making the hallway look like a scene from <em>The Exorcist. <em>Anyway, lucky for me, the nurse is here on Wednesdays, so the door is already open for me, enabling me to lurch through it. It's not really an office, just an extremely small room with a desk, a scale, sink and a few cabinets, a cheap cot, and walls that are painted a depressing shade of sunshine yellow…it looks like they glazed the walls in dried piss.

Bethany Flemming, age twenty-eight, smiles at me welcomingly when I enter. "Oh, hello, Ames. What can I—oh, dear…" Seeing my current condition and probably realizing that students in _good _health knocked before barging in on the school nurse, she stands up in concerned alarm and races over to me. I'm currently using the doorframe as a support system.

"Chicken…nuggets…" is all I can squeak out as I fight off another wave of nausea at the mere mention of that dastardly food and grimace as the stomach pains return with a vengeance. Nurse Flemming takes me in her soft, cool arms and gently settles me onto the cot, the cheap gray vinyl creaking as I collapse onto it heavily, spent. I wanna fall asleep… For someone as young as she (already has a few little ones), Nurse Flemming knows what she's doing.

I close my eyes wearily. It's the only thing that takes away the feeling of being on a merry-go-round. There's an assorted array of muttering and clunking noises as Nurse Flemming rummages through her cabinets for something to help me, short auburn hair falling into clear hazel eyes hidden behind stylish glasses and her slim jaw set in disapproving determination. "Mild case of food poisoning…third time this year." Her words are lost on me.

The rattle of a pill bottle, like the sound of a maraca, is music to my ears. "Ames, we don't have much here, but I've got some antacid pills for you that should help calm your stomach." I imagine her bending over my limp form. "We'll try and get liquids into you, so you can pass this." I crack open an eyelid so I can take two, rather large, circular white pills from her smooth, lotioned palm. Waving away the glass of water she offers, I weakly sit up and throw the tablets into my mouth. Swallowing pills without the assistance of a beverage has always been one of my odd traits. I suspect it came from learning to swallow bland green beans whole when I was a kid, so I wouldn't have to chew vegetables and taste their general ickiness, but still get away with finishing them.

After the pills are stomached, I mutter, "Thanks" before lying blissfully back down. The vinyl sticks to my arms.

Nurse Flemming pats my aching head. "That's right, girlie. Rest up. I need to go tell the main office you'll be down in a few. You can make arrangements to leave school and go home." The sound of her heels against the floor fades as she exits into the carpeted hallway. Her clean voice drifts off with "…those poor kids. All salts and sugars…homemade meals, my ass." I can still manage a shaky chuckle in my current predicament. I am now left alone with my sickness and my thoughts. Wonderful. Maybe I can slip in and out of sleep for the next twenty minutes…

Gradually, the stomach pains, the nausea, and the ache ravaging my head begin to fade enough for me to open my eyes once more, wincing at the light shining above. Temporary blindness. I turn my head to the side (the cot doesn't have a pillow) and observe the purple chart posted on the wall across from me. Something about health…weight…aw geez. My eyes track my age group, then find my height of 5 feet, 11 inches and my weight of 166. Once I find the spot, it places me in a certain color range. Dark purple…dark purple… I look at the color code under the graph. Damn. "Overweight." Not "obese", but not "slightly overweight" either. I know muscle weighs more than fat, but still…self-confidence is down eleven points, man. _Shake it off, girl. Shake it off._

"Come with me, girlie." Nurse Flemming's enthusiastic voice scares the living shit out of me. "I'm going to help you to the main office for phone calls and a pass to get out of school. Can you stand?" I nod, feeling better than I had thirty minutes ago. "Let me help." I grasp the arm she holds out to me and haul myself off the cot, stumbling. The pounding in my head returns with a vengeance, but at least the stomach pains keep at bay. Nurse Flemming throws my other arm around her shoulders to support me. I feel very weak. We stumble from her office like an awkward four-legged critter.

Antacid pills work. Despite my pounding (and spinnning) head, the nausea has subsided, and that enables us to make it to the main office in under five minutes. The lunchroom is vacant now, except for the few janitors strolling around. They eye me as if I'm about to make a mess on the shiny floor. I probably look able to fulfill that duty, in my current state.

"Holy Mother, she's pale!" That confirms it. Somehow, Nurse Flemming has managed to haul us through the office door, and this is Rhonda Heston's first reaction upon seeing me. She ushers me to sit down in one of the stiff chairs placed in front of the blue main desk. It's a sort of waiting area. And a small one at that. I see four people bustling around busily in the back part of the office behind her. Rhonda, again, is surprisingly young, mid-thirties and barely topping five feet tall. I find myself envying her pretty smallness. At least she can pull off a dress. Or jeans, for that matter.

"Rhonda's going to get you out of here. Okay, hun?" Nurse Flemming pats my arm. "I'll phone your mother with instructions later. Feel better soon." With a last smile, she exits the office. I sadly watch her go and dizzily try to create friction on my arms, attempting to make the gooseflesh disappear. What is it with the adults trying to keep this godforsaken building an icebox? I rub harder, and then stop. But I suppose one certain, even temperature wouldn't do me any good, seeing that I'm rotating between rattling chills and sweltering hot flashes.

Rhonda politely clears her throat, and I attempt to give the nice lady my full attention, but the headache's making it tough. She's filling out a pass for me to leave school, and then we need to figure out a ride. I'm fine with driving. "Ames, dear, could you tell me what the clock says over there?" Can I?

I screw up my eyes and attempt to make out the slim hands and teeny numbers. My head throbs. "Umm…one fifty-five, I think." Wow, fourth class is almost over already? Time flies when you're…oh, screw it.

"Thank you." She finishes scrolling on the yellow slip of paper and sets it aside. I spy a few students gawking at us (well, me) as they walk through the lunchroom. The office is made visible to outsiders by the slideable glass windows making up almost all of one wall. I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at them, so instead I look back to Rhonda and find her waiting for my focus.

"Sorry," I mumble.

Rhonda taps her manicured nails against the desk and picks the phone up out of its cradle. "Okay, just for health safety purposes, who was the last person you came into contact with?" She fixes me with jewel-bright eyes, a molten gold.

My brain can't function. I put my head in my hands as I think. "Um, you, obviously. And Nurse Flemming…no wait, you meant students." Duh. "Oh. That's right. Jonathan Crane…" Brings back unpleasant memories. Like, of getting sick. I look up, frowning. "But what does it matter anyway? This is a food problem. I'm not contagious." Quit defending the lunch program, lady.

"Perhaps you're right." Rhonda turns her focus to the phone again. "Now, I have a pass for you to leave school. That makes this an excused absence for today and probably for the next few days. Let's get you a ride home." Wonderful. This should've been done much earlier. "We know your father's in Arkham Asylum, and not in your life presently—"

"He _is_ in Arkham," I say shortly, hardening. "But he's still in my life…and he's still my dad." He didn't do it. I clench my fists, sickness turning to bitterness.

Rhonda sighs. "Yes, but he's obviously in no position to take you home from school." I feel humbled, embarrassed, enraged. "How about your mother?"

"She won't leave her clients." I smash down that suggestion, too. Mom's a wedding planner. I have no interest in her job. And she never answers the phone anyway, even if it's me.

"I see." Rhonda reaches down and pulls a phone book out of nowhere. "Any relatives nearby?" I shake my head. "Neighbors? I really don't want you driving home."

I decide to be honest and bob my head up and down. "One neighbor…neighbors. Geraldine Crane." I freeze at my own stupidity. God, I'm such an idiot. Worst choice ever, telling the truth… I do not want that woman involved. So I hurriedly add, "But I don't think she's at home…". Of course she is. She's retired, you corndog!

But faster than a bolt of lightning, quicker than a speeding train, Rhonda's flipped through the phonebook, located Grandmother Crane's name, dialed the number, and is now waiting for an answer. Maybe Mrs. Crane considers the phone or any other device powered by electricity a creation of Satan and won't pick it up. Maybe she doesn't have a phone… _Her number's in the phonebook, you twit, _my mind barks at me. Oh, yeah. Welcome home, Voice of Reason.

The phone's been ringing for a long time now. Rhonda seems about ready to hang up because of it. No such luck for me today. I suddenly see Rhonda's face light up in relief as she says, "Hello, Mrs. Crane? This is Rhonda Heston, from Gotham High School's main office." Oh, god. Now I wish I could hear the other part of the conversation.

A pause. "No, he's fine. Jonathan's not in any sort of trouble," she chirps pleasantly, drumming her fingers again. "This is regarding your neighbor, Ames Manson." I'm hoping Geraldine Crane doesn't know I exist…or I _had_ been hoping, anyway. She sure does now. "Well, over lunch hour, Ames seems to have contracted a small case of food poisoning." Another short, stiff pause. "Actually, your grandson was the one who sent her to the nurse's office." No, don't do that.

Any mention of Crane and a _girl_ to his pious grandmother… Now she probably thinks he's shagging me.

"Tonight's shrieking fit is _so _not my fault," I mutter pitifully, slumping down into the stiff chair and palming myself in the forehead. I certainly won't be able to _sleep _this off.

Rhonda clears her throat. "However, we are, of course, concerned about her well-being and her ability to get herself home. Seeing that you two live near each other, I was hoping it wouldn't be too much trouble for you to…" Rhonda trails off, her eager expression giving way to a delicate frown. "Oh…yes, but…very well." More talking (or explaining) from the other end. I take it as a good sign. "Thank you for your time. Take care, Mrs. Crane." She hangs up, and then she hangs her head, rubbing her temples and pursing her lips. Thinking. Debating. "Midday Mass," she mutters disbelievingly.

Still sick, I can barely suppress my glee. From the sound of things, I will probably be providing my own transportation homeward. So I straighten up in my little chair, attempting to appear non-food poisoned and pretending a headache wasn't eating its way through my skull. I'm ready to try persuasion, plastering a pleading look on my face. "Truly, I think I'm fully capable of driving myself home." I smile perkily. "See? I'm better already! It really isn't that far…" What a lie. Maybe I just sound whiny.

Rhonda sighs. "I know where you live, Ames. And I do _not _like the part of this city you have to drive through to get there." But I can still see the indecision in her eyes. She's wavering.

"Please," is all I can say. I throw her my best wounded look, begging for release. Rhonda finally cracks.

Slapping her pen onto the desk in defeat, she stands up to walk me to the door. I follow, a bit unsteadily, resisting the pressing urge to do a fist pump in the air. "All right. Fine. But I want you to call the office as soon as you set foot inside your house." I nod willingly as Rhonda wags her finger in front of my face in a lecturing way. Because of our large height difference, her index finger wiggles back and forth under my chin. I squint at it.

Our school secretary opens the door for me and presses the pass into my hand. "Be safe, Ames. Remember to bring that in when you come back." She gestures to the yellow paper slip in my hand. "And don't forget to call."

"Yup." I stride out of the door and through the lunchroom, intent on not stumbling around like a raving drunk. Before I step out of the front doors (which have mysteriously become unlocked for me), I turn to give Rhonda a fake cheery wave, one she can see through the glass. She shakes her head. There's a newfound sense of freedom that soars through me, along with another strange feeling in my gut.

Out of some miraculous intuition, I had managed to park closer to the school today, so I don't have to walk through the lot very far to get to my truck. The big, black Ford pickup welcomes me into its slightly warm, dry interior. I plop into the driver's seat and shut the door loudly behind me. It echoes across the lot.

I love this thing. I take my keys from my jeans' pocket and stick the right one into the ignition. Right when I turn the key, the nausea of my stomach returns full-force. Frickin' _perfecto!_

I groan, switch gears, and pull out of the lot with a rumbling roar. Good ol' pickup. Lets everyone know where and who I am. The steering wheel is off, so take that and add it to my current condition…I feel as if I'm driving something as unwieldy as a tank. I fear for the lives of the other drivers. My main goal is to make it home without projectile vomiting all over the windshield.

The first part of the drive goes well. I manage to obey most of the stoplights and signs without permanently injuring or decapitating any innocent pedestrians or turning any cars into giant metal pancakes, all the while weakly singing along to Billy Idol on the radio. "_It's a nice day to, start again. It's a nice day for a, white wedding. It's a nice day to, START AGAIN!" _I give my all as I belt out those two words at the top of my lungs. Terrible, terrible idea (again). I gotta puke. Placing too much stress on my diaphragm… I need to pull over. Now.

Fighting the gross urges, I breathe deeply and scrunch up my face, yanking the steering wheel to the right and pressing down on the brake. There's nothing to throw up! I fling my door open, lean out into the rancid, dingy open air, and vomit. Nothing…. Nothing to get rid of to make me feel better.

My seatbelt keeps me from tumbling out of the driver's seat, so now I'm kinda hanging halfway out of the truck, suspended uncomfortably and trying to fight off a wave of impending exhaustion. _I have to get home. _The obvious thought keeps drifting across my slow brain. Sweat beads on my forehead as I dry-heave one more time, my body's pathetic attempt to rid itself of this sickness. Waiting for five more minutes without moving a muscle, I decide it's time for me to straighten up and leave, but find no drive, no motivation to do so. I weakly raise my head…only to freeze on the spot. _Oh, god._ Of all the places I choose to pull over…here.

FAIL.

"Crap. On. Toast." I look around desperately, whipping my head from side to side. Not lost, but worse. This road…runs through the Narrows. I've managed to _pull over _in the middle of the Narrows. And at the opening of a dark alley at that. There's one facing me, too, across the street. I'm stopped in the Narrows, with food poisoning, and the truck is still running. No doubt the loud engine and radio had already alerted every psycho crawling around this godforsaken area to my presence.

"I'm gonna freakin' die." At least it'll be to the sound of REO Speedwagon…

_Focus, girl. Think. This is the Narrows, not Hell. _"But close enough," I say aloud, quietly. I need to stop having convos with my head.

Well, no one's come around to murder me yet. Maybe if I just…turned the truck off. Good start. I sit upright in the seat, undo my seatbelt buckle, shift into park, and turn the key back. The engine stops, but the sharp dinging noise that pops up (quite loudly and very unwelcomed) lets me know I should pull the key partly out. I do this and take another deep breath of muggy air to calm my racing heart. This silence is wrong, deafening. The sane part of my brain is screaming at me to get the heck out of this place, but for some reason, all I can do is gaze around in wonder and disgust. For someone who drives through the Narrows a lot, I sure never really take the time to observe it. For a good reason.

This city has really gone to the dumps. I mean, let's face it: the Narrows have always been bad, the poorest, filthiest, and most dangerous part of Gotham. But believe me, it's gotten so much worse. This whole city isn't all that much anymore, not since the murders of the Waynes all those years back. I wonder what became of Bruce, the boy. Or rather, not a boy at this time today. He'd be around my age now, give or take a few years. Probably off at some prestigious high school in some fancier, cleaner city. Anyway, in their absence and with Wayne Enterprises under new management for the time being, the rich had gotten richer, and the poor had gotten poorer. And the middle class is practically nonexistent. I now have the opportunity to observe that handiwork. Honestly, the Narrows during the _day _isn't horrible, generally no shady business going on. But at _night,_ it's bad. My mother and I had an experience a while ago.

For some reason, my brain wants to kick my body into another stupid motion. I swing my legs over the side of the seat, ignoring my sickness, and step out of the vehicle. Immediately my head swims, either because I'm stressing myself or because the air quality of this place is so much worse outside the truck. I cough and try to breathe through my mouth. It's muggy and dirty…with a tinge of something rotten and sulfuric.

I begin a cautious stroll up the cracked sidewalk, sharp pieces of concrete sticking up like teeth and trash (is that drug residue?) appearing every couple feet. My footsteps echo loudly, my only company. It makes this spookier, just emphasizing the emptiness of the place. I wonder what the hell I'm doing, why I'm thinking crazily enough to keep walking. I mean, curiosity killed the cat, right? _But satisfaction brought it back._ I don't wander very far, and I tend to speed up when passing alleyway entrances. Those alleys are just perfect for lurking things, like diseased rats the size of Rottweilers and such. Shivering at the ghostly vacant street ahead, I turn my gaze to the houses and buildings around me.

This place is haunted. It's the middle of the day, but the sun never shines here. It just gives the foggy surroundings a creepy glow, as though the Headless Horseman himself would come galloping through the mist to finish me off. My view of the sky is occasionally broken by the sight of a thick clothesline carrying raggedy, stained garments. A faint breeze passes through the streets, making it swing from side to side.

There is no daylight here.

The buildings themselves appear as if they themselves house demons. Houses and apartments are cracked brick and crumbling, or weak wood and rotting. Almost all have shadows and graffiti decorating their sides, courtesy of the area's gang activity. I can't believe people actually live here. Penniless innocents surrounded by people like the Mob.

The point at which I turn back, however, is when I spy a dingy grocery store…with its windows shattered.

"Christ!" I yell loudly, heart leaping into my throat. I feel the faint stirrings of panic begin to course through me. Turning on my heel, I travel towards my truck, but not before I hear the clank of something metal being knocked over. A demented looking man has popped out of one of the alleys behind me, alerted by my alarmed shout.

"Oh, hello…" I say nervously, taking a step back. Now I can't move. It's so dark and dank here; all I can see of this guy is his silhouette. But I see enough to be able to tell when he starts sprinting toward me, laughing his head off.

OHSHIT.

I shriek, food poisoning forgotten, and run for it.

It takes me about five seconds to wish that I could run faster. Feet pounding, head spinning, heart thudding, breath catching. This reedy wisp of a man is gaining on me. Quickly. I can hear his raspy breathing. I absolutely CANNOT die in the Narrows. I stretch out, reaching, yearning, about a hundred feet away from my truck. Damnit! Almost there…. I nearly slam into the black-painted side, diving into the driver's seat and almost shutting my foot in the door. My hands are shaking so badly that I can't grasp the key and turn it in the ignition quickly enough. I'm blubbering like a baby, clearly expecting the man to come barreling into the window. Stupid, stupid, STUPID. Why couldn't I make due with the fact that curiosity makes the cat dead? "Shit. Shit. Shit." I glance up to face my surely impending doom.

The man is gone. Like "poof!" gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

…!

I crank down my window and stick my head out. No creepy guy. A movement catches my eye. I squint. What…huh. Weird. I've just seen three men dressed entirely in black disappear into another alley. Silently. Could they have something to do with the absence of my attacker? But…I would've heard that. Or them. Wouldn't I? Whatever. That's a matter to think about later. I'm getting the hell out of here. This is too much of a stretch from my daily routine.

Breathe in. Turn key.

I rev up the engine again and peel out. Jerkily shifting gears, I zoom up the street, perfectly content to get out of the Narrows as soon as possible. It makes me feel like a coward, running away in broad daylight like this. Distracted, I almost veer off the road and take out a lamppost on the sidewalk that I'm pretty sure is one of those gas-powered (lit) lamps. You know, the creepy ones that hiss at you.

The rest of the drive through the Narrows, which seems to stretch on and on today of all days, goes smoothly. I don't run into any more demented wackos, by the way. When I do finally exit, the whole atmosphere changes from dirty and dingy to fresh and light. I relax my vicelike grip on the steering wheel and turn up the radio, happy to hear a Simon & Garfunkel tune through the speakers. Ah. Peaceful. The sun has finally (literally) come out of hiding again. Clean.

Ten minutes later, I take a sharp left from the street I'm on currently onto the start of a gravel road surrounded by a small grove of knotted trees. There are grooves and ruts from here to kingdom come. "Easy, girl. Don't freak out. Focus." Please, let me not start fishtailing. I keep my eyes glued to the road and tighten my hands around the wheel until my knuckles turn white. No off-roading for me. It's the last thing I need to happen. How can this day get any worse?

Never mind, don't answer that question.

The bumpiness starts. I hear my truck rattling, along with my teeth. I bounce around in the seat, my death grip on the wheel anchoring me down.

I'm forced to stop and dry-heave twice more before taking another left onto a different stretch of old country road. There are the mailboxes. On the left: _Crane, _in a scratchy, sharp sort of way, in white paint. A faded address is scrawled out beneath the name. I turn my attention to the black mailbox on the right. _Manson, _in neat little box letters, our address printed nicely below our name. There's such a difference between the two of them, like Jonathan and me. I open ours and pull out four letters. Two bills, a thank-you card, and a payment.

All for my mom. None for me.

There's always one I'm looking for, but will probably never get: a response from my dad. I send him a letter every week. I wonder if he even receives them. Maybe, just maybe, hopefully, he does, but the workers at the asylum won't let him write back to the daughter he hasn't seen for almost six years. Not since '87. It seems like only yesterday…but that's a different story for another day.

When I finally pull into our driveway, I'm still feeling horrible, but I guess I see something that sorta makes me feel worse and something that doesn't surprise me in the least. Geraldine Crane's shockingly sleek, dark green car in still in their open garage, not having moved an inch from this morning when I saw it before I left for school. Midday Mass, my ass. But I'm actually _not _that offended; I wouldn't want to drive me home, either. The old, white farmhouse seems to glare at me.

My truck radio claims it's now 2:45.

The next few minutes, hours, are a blur, a fog. I must've been drifting in and out of a state or something. I can remember stumbling in through the front door, kicking off my shoes, numbly dialing the school's number, talking to Rhonda, refusing to speak to Nurse Flemming, and collapsing onto the couch in our small living room for a much-needed nap. I fade in and fade out, the current sensations my body is experiencing (namely, pain) muting to a point where I can rest. Sleep.

For some odd reason though, at precisely 5 o'clock, I wake up from a weird dream with a jerk and wander outside my house, standing just outside the front door, and stare at the gravel road for the next ten minutes. Why am I even out here? I can't remember. Maybe I'm looking for the Tooth Fairy or something, I don't know. I frown, shaking off the feeling that I'm forgetting something, and go back inside, into the air conditioning and out of the pleasant warmth of April. One last glance outside…no one. What (or who) had I been looking for?

Another blissful hour of sleep on the couch.

"Ames, I'm home!" my mother announces as she sails into our house, throwing bags all over the kitchen floor. I wake with a sharp gasp. "Where are you?" she barks. "Ames, are you even here?"

I bury my face into the stiff pillow I've placed on the couch for head support. "In here," I shout to her weakly. It comes out muffled. I hear her rush into the living room.

"My god—"

I keep my head where it's at, not wanting to see the expression on her face lest I die of laughing instead of food poisoning. "Mom, don't freak out…" My words are lost on her, so I let her fuss over me when all I really want to do, when all I really need to do, is sleep this off. I'm still in a haze. "Yes, Mom, I'm in pain… No, I'm not on drugs… Wait, that is not an option!"

"Oh, but I still think—" She cuts herself off. I'm still in the position of a face-plant on the couch, while Mom strokes my hair. "Ok."

I mutter something incoherent about food poisoning, that she should leave me alone, that Nurse Flemming would call later.

I remember something vital. I roll over to face my mom with my pasty pale face. Mom is gorgeous, with strawberry-blonde hair, delicate features, and deep emerald green eyes, flecked with warm gold. We are polar opposites. She doesn't look a day over thirty-five, though she is forty-three. It's easy to see why she had been able to attract someone like my dad. At least she loves him, and she still wears her wedding ring. But back to my vital thing. I clear my dry throat; I'd forgotten what Nurse Flemming had said about drinking liquids. "Mom, can you call Zora for me? Tell her she needs to sing for me tonight and tomorrow. I can't make it to work." I pause, thinking. Mom waits. "Call Mr. Sorvino, too, and tell him she's covering. He needs to know."

Mom pats my back. "Well, tonight I can understand, but tomorrow, too? Ames, you'll be better by then."

"No, I won't," I groan.

Mom pouts. "Is this a self-confidence issue?" I assume she throws her hands into the air because they stop fussing over me. "Ames, they love you! You sound like Pat Benatar…."

"Just do it," I plead. She sulks, and I have to convince her not to sue the high school…or "poor" Ursula, for that matter. Mom finally leaves me to sleep. But not for long.

The telephone rings an hour or so later, the sharp sound resounding in my now hyper-sensitive ears painfully and waking me up again. I'm tempted to go throw something at it. Maybe it really is Satan's device. Mom shuts it up before it can do more damage, and her excited yammering confirms that the call comes from Nurse Flemming with further instructions. All this talking is the last straw. Too. Much. Noise. I want my bedroom.

By some miracle, because of how exhausted I am, I manage to shove myself up off the soft, comfortable couch and speed-walk to the creaky flight of carpeted stairs that lead up to my room. Mom clumsily chases me down, phone in one hand and a glass of water in the other. I stop halfway up the stairs because I'm tired of running away from things today. Accepting the water when she catches up on her short legs, I send her back downstairs after refusing to speak with Nurse Flemming (again), but remembering I also hadn't brought my homework home with me.

I barely make it to my bed in one piece, noting that my windows are thankfully open, so I don't have to mess with them. My eyelids droop. I don't think I've ever gone to bed before seven o'clock in the evening before… New experiences aren't always bad ones though. I conk out immediately, snuggling into only my sheets.

Peacefully drifting. A nice sort of fog. Around ten o'clock, I realize one thing. It's quiet tonight. All I hear is the faint buzzing of locusts outside. There is no screaming from next door, no piercing shrieks from Geraldine Crane. Silence. And for some reason, that disturbs me most of all.

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><p><strong>AN: So there you have it! In case you haven't picked it out yet, the year as of now is 1993. Graduation is next year. This story will continue through _Batman Begins_ and through _The Dark Knight Rises._**

**Lines or parts of this chapter you liked or found funny? LET ME KNOW IN YOUR REVIEWS! It won't take more than a minute.**

**I really appreciate all you guys! LOTS OF LOVE.**


	4. Night and Day Terrors

**A/N: These chapters just keep getting longer and longer. And I had fun writing it. In the plot, we should all celebrate because this is the biggest time lapse yet! We go through a night and most of a day! :D**

**I will thank all my reviews in the next chapter.**

**The name Sinéad appears in a while, and the pronunciation is shi-NAYD.**

**Anyone know how to fix spell check? Tell me if you spot any grammatical errors.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except my bones. And plagarism will only end in death by Optimus Prime.**

**THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REVISED.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: Night and Day Terrors<strong>

_You should have known the price of evil._

_And it hurts to know that you belong here. _

_Yeah._

_No one to call._

_Everybody to fear._

_Your tragic fate is looking so clear._

_Yeah._

_Oooooooh._

_It's your fucking nightmare._

_**~Avenged Sevenfold, Nightmare**_

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><p><em>What the hell was that? <em>is the first thought that flies through my brain when I wake up. I groan at the nitty-gritty feeling in my eyes and sit up halfway to see the time on my old radio clock. It's four in the freakin' morning! Stupid dreams with their sense of realism. I've never had one quite _that _vivid before. Those two people…something so broken and dark between them. Who has a dream in third person point-of-view anyway?

No one's going to know what the hell I'm talking about…

Something about a "Sinéad" and a…"Bat-man"? My mind must be terrifically screwed up for imagining something _that _far-fetched. Then there was another name, one I can't seem to remember… I'm remembering less and less of the dream every second actually. Oh, well.

Aargh. Batman. What the hell?

Dreams are funny things. At least, in my case they are. They either make no sense at all, or they don't make sense _yet. _They make you happy, scared, angry, but most of all, they befuddle you to the point of insanity. Some of them give you that creepy sense of déjà vu that makes you want to jump in front of a speeding double-decker bus. Of course, you don't feel it until later. Sometimes, most infuriatingly of all, dreams are premonition. But I, of course, do not believe in all that crap. It's superstitious. Dumb. An overused movie plot because people are unoriginal and run out of ideas too quickly. False. Something to be ignored. Dreams…are not real.

I will myself to drift off again; I truly do. But the dream has kicked my mind into a whirling frenzy of thought. That and the fact that I'm becoming nauseous again. A stomach pain is quick to punch me in the gut, and so I lift the pillow from underneath my head and slam it down over my face. I'm seriously tempted to smother myself with it, just so I don't have to endure another bout of side-effects of food poisoning.

Only I know that I can never go back to sleep once I've woken up. Grand.

So there I lie as the minutes tick by, tossing and turning in futile attempts to get comfortable (like in those mattress commercials). Occasionally, I pull my covers on and off, always too hot or too cold. Or I switch between having my head under the pillow and on top of it before I finally chuck it at the wall in frustration. Right now, I've currently managed to maneuver myself around until I'm stretched out across the bed diagonally, one arm and a leg dangling free. Don't you remember being little and being afraid of having your limbs hanging over the bed because you thought a monster would chew on them? Yeah. That's how I feel right now, sweating profusely. But not because of the Boogeyman. My ears pick up sounds from outside.

There are crows kicking up a ruckus right. Outside. My window.

"Ew," I whisper, curling up into a little ball and shuddering. The cawing intensifies as if they sense my distaste. There are always a few around, but I've never heard so many before, maybe on a few instances, but I'd never been this fully alert to hear them.

Crows. Yuck.

I hate crows. More like, birds in general. There is just something about disease-ridden creatures flapping around our heads that doesn't appeal to me. I'm not necessarily _afraid _of birds (okay, maybe just a little); think of it as more of an extremely deep loathing. I've been pooped on, Mom used to have a few as pets…use your imagination. I'm just like a troll (oh, the similarities); I'm afraid of canaries. Of course, watching _The Birds _with a cousin when I was a seven-year-old didn't help anything, either.

All right, yes. I'm scared of birds.

Besides, crows remind me of scarecrows, and thus in turn, unpleasant school memories. _"Scarecrow! Scarecrow! Johnny Rake's a Scarecrow." A small boy, bearing his torment with a stony silence and intelligence beyond his years. _The cawing outside rises to another peak.

I get up and peer through my window cautiously, surprised when a feathered demon _doesn't _attempt to come through the screen and gouge out my eyes. Before I shut my window, I decide to observe the great outdoors.

There's a tree right below my window. And my window isn't horribly far from the ground. The tree itself has many large branches, all sticking out at odd angles. The trunk is old and knotted with curves and twists every which way. The perfect climbing frame. Hm. The screen on my window wouldn't be too difficult to pop out… Maybe I can steal away in the night. I snort. Yeah, when I become a rebellious teenager. I'm generally very well-behaved; only my thoughts are evil.

Unknown reasons make me look out further. I can see the Cranes' house and barn from here, just down the road with a cornfield separating our houses. Everything is black, shadowed. _I wonder if Jonathan's sleeping right now…_ I blink my eyes rapidly. _Where did _that_ come from?_

Shaking my head, I slide the window down, shutting out all noises. My last view is of the dark sky, the tall lamppost in our yard lighting it up. That thing's taller than our house, I think. More nightmares to come; I've seen the vague shapes of circling crows hovering over the Crane's old barn. I walk to bed on wobbly legs, collapsing onto it gratefully and wincing at another uncomfortable, slightly less painful cramp to my abdomen. Attempts at sleeping will all be to no avail. I close my eyes.

I do end up remembering one more thing from my dream. One more eerie thing about it. Maybe it's a coincidence; maybe not.

I had woken to the cawing of crows.

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><p>"Ames, I think you should get up."<p>

…

"Ames…are you dead? Did you die?"

"Mom?"

"Ames!"

"Mom, _geroff _me!"

I nearly push her off my bed. She had been lying right next to me, arm around my waist and her face right next to mine. I think I'm a little freaked out at being in that position when I woke up. But Mom had genuinely sounded worried about my condition. So I scramble away from her, hopping out of bed and getting dizzy from the resulting head rush. Mom is still stretched out casually, impeccably dressed in her fancy crème-colored suit. A quick glance at my clock reveals that it's ten in the morning. Mom must've wanted to wake me up before she left for work. How kind.

"Don't you have a job to go to?" I ask, avoiding her eyes. I feel like crap, and probably look it, too. As a result of all the vomiting/dry-heaving I'd done yesterday, my morning breath would make anyone think that I'd inhaled a sackful of onions the night before. Brushing my teeth will be mandatory. And worst of all, I had fallen asleep in my jeans, a fact that escaped my notice when I'd woken up a few hours ago. Now they are wrinkled and superglued to my legs.

I _love_ mornings.

Mom sits up. "I guess I do. I was just checking on you." She walks over to me and gives me a quick hug. I feel temporarily safe in Mom's arms; I love the smell of her perfume. Lilies. She pulls back and pushes a red-gold strand of hair behind her ear. "Take care of yourself today, honey. Instructions and medicine are on the kitchen table. Call me at work if you have any problems." Yeah, I'm sure she'll answer. Mom seeks out my steely eyes with her warm gaze. "I love you. Okay?"

"'Kay," I mutter, already feeling sick.

Mom walks through my doorway, her matching heels sinking into the plush carpet. "Throw on a T-shirt, lounge around and watch TV. Try not to get _too _lazy_." _She winks at me and leaves.

"Don't make people _too_ happy. They don't deserve it!" I call out after her. I hear her twinkling laughter drift back up the stairs. Seriously, they don't deserve happiness. I suppose no one does. Everyone's done something bad. And love…I don't think love exists at all. I'd given up on it a long time ago. No boyfriend or crushes on me in high school has to say something about my future, right? Besides, in Gotham, most marriages end in divorces, money disputes, violence, and custody battles. I feel that Mom's job as a wedding planner is pointless, even if it brings in some money.

I stand in my spot for a few minutes, at least until I hear Mom's Buick LaSabre pull out of the driveway. Then I open my windows back up, marveling at the pleasant weather today. Missing school is nice, but it feels really, really weird. I hunt through my drawers for an oversized T-shirt to lounge around in all day. Forcing my brain to function properly, I attempt to peel off the jeans that have become suctioned to my legs and red shirt of yesterday. I throw on the white T-shirt and hug myself, enjoying the feel of fresh, comfy cotton.

Once downstairs, I walk into the kitchen and past the table, completely ignoring Nurse Flemming's instructions scrawled out on a piece of paper resting on the corner. I will turn a completely blind eye…and do it my way. I will heal myself, so help me. I know people can die from this sort of thing, but I'm unable to summon up any concern over the fact. And I feel better than I did yesterday. Maybe I'll follow her instructions about fluids though. I do feel kind of dehydrated, with a dizzy head, weak legs, and chapped lips. No food today, though. That will only result in vomiting onto the living room carpet, so I'm not eating. No, out of pure laziness, I figure it's best to grab a glass and a pitcher of tea to take with me to the living room.

"Damn," is my response upon opening the refrigerator door. None. Zip. Nada. The pitcher is in here, but it's empty. I have no desire to boil water and wait for it to steep for an hour and then wait for it to cool off…gah! Too much work. I would be decomposing on the floor by the time I got it done.

Luckily for me, the 12-pack of green tea is newly bought and full. I grab seven of them. The chill coming off the bottles causes my arms and chest much discomfort, and I waddle off toward the living room.

By the time I reach the sofa, my arms are steadily turning a bright red, like a boiled lobster. I gratefully dump the condensing bottles onto the soft, brown couch, making it wet. But I don't care; I grab the remote control and collapse on top of it anyway. Small trips exhaust me.

When I flip the television on, a hysterically sobbing woman is being held by an overly-handsome man. I grimace and flip to a weather channel so I can tune in to this week's forecast. The previous channel had been some hammy 24-7 soap opera program. A bad habit of my mom's, staying up late watching those with the TV on full volume. It's part of the reason I'd moved upstairs. I never got any sleep. But now, there's so much more privacy. I twist the green cap of a bottle and take a long drink. It's ice-cold, and the sweet, tart citrus flavor explodes on my tongue, both refreshing me and making me feel more awake. I could get used to this.

The weather next week is partly sunny with a 40 percent chance of rain on Tuesday and Wednesday, by the way. Just in case you were curious.

I browse through the old movie channels next. They were so cheesy back then, mostly black and white with corny, fake-looking effects. At least nowadays, they are colored, and technology (though some effects are sketchy) has come long way. You can only imagine what the movie future will be like. I sigh happily, snuggling into the couch with my large feet resting on at least three bottles. My thumb hits the down button on the remote.

Believe it or not, when I land one of the channels, the first thing I see on the screen is a fluffily feathered monstrosity swooping down on some terrified lady with the intention of plucking her eyes out. The old setting looks familiar. Ah. Crap. _The Birds. _I shudder and switch to a channel that airs only crime shows. No reality show bullshit for me.

Around one o'clock, I start to go insane. How can some people lie here all day? Seriously, if I don't keep myself busy in some form or fashion, my mind either goes into sleep mode or it explodes. I've already gone through all seven bottles of tea, so I suppose I'll grab the rest at some point in time. What can I say? I eat or drink when I'm bored. I sit up on the couch. At least the stomach pains are gone but…I really gotta pee now.

Plastic bottles fall off the couch when I hesitantly stand up. I'll pick them up later. I go to our newly completed bathroom and take care of urgent business and even brush my teeth before finally, FINALLY, a wave of exhaustion hits me with full force. Using the fuzzy, blue bathmat as a pillow, I fall asleep on the bathroom floor to the smell of oranges.

"Ow…"

I wake up three hours later with a raging headache. Apparently, bathmats don't make the best pillows, seeing that my head had somehow managed to "sink" through the mat to the cold, hard floor. I use the sink to pull myself up before opening the mirror/cabinet for some Tylenol or something. I take two, exit the bathroom, and snatch the remaining five green teas from the fridge. "Back to the couch. Whoopee." I must be crazy; most people in my class would kill for a day off of school, and here I am, still sick and hating it. What should I do with myself? I collapse onto the sofa.

It must've been that sick sort of curiosity (or boredom), the kind that compels us to satisfy it and discover things we rather wouldn't along the way, that made me change the TV channel back. As I had originally suspected, _The Birds_ is still on, an all-day marathon, as usual. Maybe this could be my first step in overcoming my "fear" of the avian species. It's fictional. Right? I fix my eyes on the screen, wincing.

"God help me," I say nervously, twisting the cap off another tea.

About fifty minutes later, I'm sitting upright, chewing on my thumbnail with my wide eyes glued to the television screen. The movie is surprisingly…freaky. Sure, the effects suck and all that screaming is overdramatic, but the villains are _birds. _I'm not overcoming my fear of them; I'm just getting more paranoid of an impending attack. I vaguely realize that I had kicked off my loose shorts at some point during the film. It's still spring and is the perfect temperature outside, but anyone will get a bit warm while lying in a ray of sunshine that has spread over your couch. I will not turn on the AC, because I'm not dying, and Mom likes to save money.

I shudder as another swarm of birds bombard a house.

…

I'm definitely not opening a window.

The faint tapping on our front door in the other room manages to scare the bejesus out of me. Thinking of certain flying creepies, I actually leave it alone for a few seconds before slapping myself upside the head. Most likely, I have a visitor, but who would want to visit me? I step on a few plastic bottles on my way to the door, completely disregarding my current state of undress and being pleasantly surprised that I can actually stand up properly without falling over and feeling the need to hurl. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm coming," I say to the mystery person on the other side.

I grasp the bronze knob, fling open the door, stare into a pair of shocking blue eyes behind round glasses, and slam the door shut in Jonathan Crane's face, turning around and pressing my back and arms against it like I'm trying to keep out the world. Blood roars in my cheeks. My mouth hangs open.

…!

What the—

Oh, _heck _no!

That had _not _been Jonathan Crane standing outside! Eyes wide and pulse thudding in my ears, I decide that it had been and groan. Grand. Jonathan Crane has just seen me wearing nothing but an oversized "I Framed Roger Rabbit" T-shirt and a pair of black panties. I've been mortified for life. How can I face him now and sit at his lunch table later? This is bound to be impossibly awkward. He is still a _boy._

First thing's first: FIND SHORTS. Crane shouldn't be kept waiting, even if I'm not overly fond of him. I race quickly back into the living room and leap onto the couch, desperately looking over and behind it for my wretched shorts.

"Found 'em!" I triumphantly hold the black bottoms up in the air before pulling them on. I groan again and begin my trek back to the front door. Maybe God will throw down lightning and smite me into a pile of ash before I have to face _him._ Yeah, right. And sharks don't eat people.

Blushing furiously, I open the door again and look down upon the sight of an annoyed yet slightly amused Crane, who is smirking at me and not flustered in the slightest. Not a chip in that steely armor of his. He looks more raggedy than ever today. Same old shoes, same patchy pants, same baggy sweater vest. But, different, somehow. In the ensuing silence between us, I take a closer look at him.

I gape openly. "What the hell happened to—"

His coldly polite glare suggests that I leave the matter alone and unanswered. Crane wordlessly holds up a stack of books, temporarily distracting me from the small but deep scratches covering his pale face and neck. They stand out, red against white. Ah yes. Homework. Frowning somewhat worriedly, I take the stack of school books from him, noting that the scratches extend to his hands as well and that there, they are more severe. The school sent my assignments home with him. How kind of Crane to actually bring them to me.

Crane finally speaks. "I was going to get our mail and figured it would be wise to ensure that you had these." His smooth, logical tenor surprises me again. "You look terrible."

I blink, looking like a fool, and shift the books to my other arm. What to do? "Well, thanks, I guess." I swallow nervously. His X-ray eyes are six inches below me and _still_ freeze me up. "Um, would you like to come inside or something?" That's better, except for the fact that I'm inviting Jonathan Crane into my house! Ew! Only out of politeness and good neighbor-li-ness, I swear.

Crane shakes his head and steps back. "I refuse." He pushes his glasses up his nose, thinking of how to put his next phrase into intelligent words. "Grandmother…told me not to associate with you." A pause. "She called you a witch."

I almost drop my books. She doesn't even know me! But she'd heard mine and Crane's names mentioned in the same sentence, so…

"Ha. She's one to talk," I mumble. I immediately clap a hand over my stupid mouth. _Idiot,_ my mind chastises.

But Crane doesn't seem offended at all. In fact, I almost fall over when I see something resembling a ghost of a smile flit across his lips. And…it's gone. I still decide to observe _him _(again). It occurs to me that I had only noticed the scratches because Crane's long hair is swept back from his face today, probably to keep it from touching the cuts. Past them and his minor acne, I can see that Crane has a surprisingly feminine face, with a fine-boned structure, full and shapely lips, bright blue eyes, and high cheekbones. I'm overcome with a sudden bout of strange envy. Too pretty. Because Crane's a boy (obviously) and so—er—undeveloped and gawky, this plainly makes him look bug-eyed and freaky…and girly. Not attractive at all.

Jonathan is silent under my scrutiny, analyzing me in turn. I hate it. He probably agrees with his grandmother. So I raise my eyebrows at him and wiggle the fingers of my right hand under his nose. "Aba kadabra. Boogely woogely."

Random.

Crane rolls his eyes. He is not amused. He folds his skinny arms across his thin, sweater-vested chest. "A witch really wasn't what she called you."

"I can guess. And I'm sure I've been called worse."

Where have I heard that before?

I frown at him thoughtfully, before brightening and smiling wryly. "So, _you _think I'm a witch?" Well, _he'd_ made it up. I really hope it doesn't sound like I'm flirting. I lean against the doorway and wait for his answer. Amazing. I've known him for a total of one day.

"I never stated that _fact_," Crane replies smoothly, something like a knowing glint in his azure eyes. Another smirk.

Wait…

Did he just say it was a _fact_?

I hold my books against my chest, feeling the conversation coming to an end. I can't think of a single response other than, "You win." Crane's countenance doesn't change a bit, but I'm catching a whiff of triumphant smugness from him. It stinks. _You said you would start being nice to him, _my mind reminds me.

_I said I would try, _I retort. My brain rolls its eyes.

I tuck a strand of messy hair behind my ear. "Thanks again for the homework. I know you didn't have to do that. I owe you." I'm sounding too authentic and gushy.

Crane's face darkens into a common scowl. "I don't want you in my debt."

Hostile, much? "I should, um, probably go back inside and recover so I can get it done." I take a few steps back, keeping the screen door propped open with my leg. "So, I'll see you in school tomorrow?" Why did I ask him that?

Jonathan nods at me, arms still crossed.

Feeling dumb, I hold out my hand for a handshake. Crane turns his back on me and descends our front steps, something dangerous flashing behind his glasses. "Good-bye," he states with stern finality.

Jerk.

Remembering his injuries and reminding myself that Crane probably just hates people in general so I shouldn't take it personally, I add, "Take care, Jonathan." I crane my neck to see his twiggy retreating form.

I see his steps falter, but he doesn't stop or look back. Just continues up the gravel road to get the post.

What a strange boy. A breeze blows across our porch, lifting my hair off my neck temporarily. All that grown-up, cold arrogance about him. He's only seventeen, like me, but so much more formal and mature than the rest of us juniors. It's why he's so easily singled out.

When I go back inside, I decide to pull a wooden, honey-colored chair from our table and sit by the dining room window. Ten minutes later, Crane walks back by our house, a very small bundle of letters in hand. Does he ever get hot? The only skin he ever shows is his face and hands! Not that I have a desire to see more. Oh god, no. Never mind; let him stay covered for all I care.

Crane walks up his driveway, and I see him pause before he goes through his antique front door. That pause had been hesitant, reluctant, defeated, exasperated…and maybe fearful? That pause is enough for me to suspect that something more is going on in that house than just the screaming fits and holy rites.

So I sit there by the window and ponder for a while, leaving my mess in the living room for Mom to find when she came home, and knowing all too well that I'm worrying over Jonathan Crane more than I should.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Chapter 4 is done and done! **

**The troll and the canary reference came to me when I was watching _Hellboy II: The Golden Army_ the other night. So I used it. Fantastic series, by the way. I suggest you all check it out.**

**Something else I suggest you all check out is a scene with Cillian Murphy from Watching the Detectives. He is singing and playing guitar and is just so hot! HOT! HOT! I get tingles...****!**

**PLEASE REVIEW! AND THANKS TO EVERYONE!**

**Question of the Day: What's your favorite musical?**


	5. Why Did I Sign Up For This?

**A/N: I'm baaaack! I'm so pleased to hear about _Wicked_ being most people's favorite musical! But most of all, thanks to the **xdarkestxnightsx** for choosing _Repo! __The __Genetic __Opera._ My favorite of all time, and you either love it or hate it. Apart from that, my favorites have to be _Sweeney __Todd_ and _Wicked._ So, as a result, song titles and lyrics from _Wicked_ and _Repo! __The __Genetic __Opera_ will be making appearances as chapter titles later on.**

**Thanks ****to **thexdarkestxnightsx, howlackadaisical, teamXtrek, Silential, L, My Purple Skies, pourquoibella, Starrycat05, Comidia Del Arte, ForgetTheFall, Arlena4815162342, ChocolateShapeshifter, **and** Madness is me **for ****reviewing ****the ****past ****few ****chapters. ****YOU ****GUYS ****ROCK ****MY ****SOCKS! ****It ****brightens ****my ****day ****to ****see ****a ****new ****reviewer ****:D ****Thanks ****for ****adding ****me ****to ****story ****alerts ****and ****favorites, ****too!**

**My spell-check has been miraculously resurrected. I'm not sure how; I simply went onto Word one day and it was back :/ Needless to say, I'll be editing the first four chapters AGAIN.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything, so there's no reason to get huffy. Plagiarism will be punished as Batman sees fit.**

**THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REVISED.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five: Why Did I Sign Up For This?<strong>

_With a thousand lies and a good disguise,_

_Hit 'em right between the eyes,_

_Hit 'em right between the eyes._

_When you walk away, nothing more to say,_

_See the lightning in your eyes,_

_See 'em running for their lives._

_**~The Offspring, You're Gonna Go Far, Kid**_

* * *

><p>The screaming fits return that night. They make sleeping difficult, but they're better than the awful silence from the night before. Today is the only time I've ever seen Jonathan that worse for wear. Sure, he'd have a bruise every now and then, but I've never actually seen him wounded. I can't help but feel that it's my fault somehow. Maybe if I'd never started talking to him in the first place…he would be fine now. I won't go back to trying to be popular, though. No way.<p>

So I lie there for hours that night, curled up in a ball and nestled inside of myself, listening to the shrieks like I have on so many other nights. A breeze blows the curtains around my windows. I had peeped through them a while ago, to see the lights in the Cranes' house still on. I bet their windows are also open, or I probably wouldn't be able to hear them as well as I can. You'd think Geraldine would close them to cover what she's doing.

She has aneurysms over the littlest and most stupid things, almost like she's searching for an excuse to get Jonathan in trouble. Like tonight, for example, the story is that Jonathan had missed a spot when he was dusting (he even cleans for her?). She screams about how he's a slovenly, lazy pig with no sense of self-respect. Well, I think she takes any dignity he has away from him, from the sound of things. How Crane hasn't been driven to suicide yet, I will never know. He's probably waiting until he's eighteen to get the heck out. It occurs to me that Crane has probably put up with this for most of his life.

He's stronger than I thought.

"And this is how you repay me for taking you in after your whore of a mother died? Out of the kindness of my weak, old heart? You ungrateful brat!" I wince and imagine Geraldine Crane yelling and shrieking so much that her yellowing teeth come tumbling right out of her withered mouth, along with a spray of drool. The image brightens the mood slightly, but I still feel grim.

I've never heard Jonathan defend himself. He knows that talking back to Mrs. Crane will only aggravate her further. I used to think he was weak for not fighting back. But then again, maybe he is. I'd fight back, anyway. Who wouldn't?

Until now.

Clinging to my pillow, I hear a low murmur, quiet to me, but one that could count as a slightly raised voice if you were in the house. I know it's Jonathan, but as much as I'd like to, I don't understand what's being said. But it's the first time I've ever heard a break in the old lady's shrieking. It stops long enough for me to hear the sound of my own heartbeat jumping in my chest. Nervously, I wait for what's next.

It could be the last time he ever stands up for himself, too.

All hell breaks loose. I fly out of bed and streak over to the open window, to the one that gives me the best view of their house, hoping to see something, anything, that would indicate what actions were being taken. The ranting that starts chills me to the bone.

"DO YOU THINK I CARE ABOUT THAT BITCH?" Geraldine Crane screams angrily, like a banshee. "DO YOU THINK I CARE THAT YOUR SLUT IS SICK? THAT YOUR WHORE IS SLEEPING? You son of Satan! You do not tell me to be quiet. YOU DO NOT TELL ME TO BE QUIET!" A sharp smack echoes throughout the night. I cringe away from the window. "May the good Lord have mercy on your wicked soul! Respect your elders! Do you want me to put you out again? Is that what you want? Do you want me to put you there?" A pause, like waiting for an answer. The rest of the screaming becomes garbled together, mainly because I move away from the window and decide to shut it; I also just close my ears to that and the sharp, consecutive slaps. I just want to shut out the outside world.

The names she'd called me hurt. And I know she was speaking of me. Quite a bit. What she'd said…so she does think Crane and I are together. Just…ew. No one will be able to convince her otherwise. My reputation is screwed. I lumber back to bed, ready for another sleepless night.

When Mom had come home, the first thing she did was chastise me for being negligent and self-destructive, for not treating myself properly and following instructions. Then she'd ensured I'd gotten some form of proper treatment, and _then _she had discovered the empty plastic bottles on the living room floor. Needless to say, she had made me a fresh pitcher of tea and pressed a ten dollar bill into my palm, telling me to go to the grocery store after school the next day. Surprisingly, she hadn't been that irritated with me. She'd then sent me up to my room to finish homework, which I'd managed to complete in four hours. For five different subjects, that's not bad. And so here I am, lying in bed, trying to sleep, and worrying about Jonathan Crane. AGAIN.

So help me, I am not a slut or a whore. Maybe a bitch when I get pissed off but still…it stings. No one likes to be called any of those things.

Is it possible that Crane had been defending me? I'd heard him speak, but hadn't necessarily understood any words. It's possible. But would he—? I burrow down into the covers some more, trying to get some sleep before school starts.

Nah. He wouldn't.

* * *

><p>Come Friday morning, I feel tons better, but I'm unable to find two things. One: the slip of paper that would grant me entrance back into school. Two: the keys to my pickup. Oh joy. The day I finally come back to school after missing it on rare occasion, I'm going to be late because I can't keep my life on track and my thoughts together.<p>

My room looks like a tornado ripped through it. Dressed in my customary jeans and T-shirt, I throw my school books into my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. I'm desperate; where the hell did I put those things?

With a spurt of miraculous intuition, I grab the jeans from yesterday and search in the left pocket. Oh. Well. Found the pass. Check that one off my to-do list. I drop the jeans back onto the floor with a satisfied sigh. I swear I hear a faint jangling noise, but ignore it. Sticking the paper into the left pocket of the jeans I'm wearing today, I stride over to the cheap full-length mirror leaning against the far wall and drop my bag.

"Gross," I comment at my reflection. The T-shirt and ripped jeans won't cut it; I need something more. So I open my closet and pull out a black leather jacket (made for women), a black V-neck tank top, and a pair of leather boots. I switch shirts and shrug on the jacket, zipping it up and snapping the button at my neck, sticking my hands into the narrow pockets temporarily. The heeled boots come up to only mid-calf, so I can tuck my jeans into them. I place my hands on my hips and face my reflection again.

Better. "I look like a fat hooker," I say aloud. The boots don't help anything. I'd managed to sleep on my hair wrong, and as a result, the waves are now sticking up every which available way. Ripping a comb through them doesn't work, so I snatch a scrunchie from my dresser and pull the long ash-brown strands up into a high, no-shit ponytail. Shorter strands around my face stick out and give me a frazzled look. I sigh. Why can't I be more like Mom? I attempt to keep the pieces of hair back with a thick, silver-sequined headband my mother had given me a few months back, but now it gives me a hippie look in addition to a hooker appearance. But I leave it be. At least it looks somewhat decent.

I pick up my schoolbag and the discarded and dirty clothes from the day before, heading downstairs. How will I get to school today, if I don't have my keys? I don't have any idea how to hotwire a vehicle. Damnit. "Mom, have you seen my keys?" I bawl, skidding to a stop after barreling into the kitchen, completely forgetting that she's still in bed. A soft moan from the other room is my only response. "Sorry," I apologize quietly. I'm so inconsiderate. I throw my school stuff onto the table.

After searching through the living room for my keys, I huffily give up the frantic search. Screw this. I go back in the other room, mainly so I can throw my clothes downstairs in the basement, where the washing machine is located. I kick the pile of clothes, seriously pissed off.

"All right, who stole my—? Never mind, I found them…" I grumble, holding up the set of keys after searching through the _right _pocket of my dirty jeans. Apparently, my cleverness doesn't extend outside of school. Now I can leave. Just in time, too. Yesterday was obviously an exception, but it normally takes me twenty minutes to get there.

Outside, I greet my tough, black truck with a loving pat on its dented hood. "Black Jack," I murmur affectionately. Yes, I name vehicles; my mom's LaSabre is called Susie. Dad would've loved both of them. I shake my head to clear my brain. Thinking too much, again. I throw open the door and toss my stuff into the passenger's seat. When I turn the key in the ignition, I fall forward and whack my head on the steering wheel repeatedly.

Cripes, I'm such an idiot! Low on gas. The alert light flashes at me dangerously. I'm broke, and Mom gets pissed if I ask her for money or use the money she's given me for something else. I finger the ten dollar bill I'd shoved into my jacket pocket before I left. So I guess I'm going to have to wing it and pray I don't get stuck in the Narrows again. I know that I'm really pushing it, but my truck hasn't failed me. Yet.

Kill me now. Black Jack, I'm sorry for whatever harm comes to your old engine.

Conveniently, when I'm driving through the Narrows, I can swear I hear the engine sputtering, threatening to stop and leave me stranded.

I thump on the steering wheel desperately. "Don't you dare die," I growl. I am _not_ walking through the Narrows. The truck crawls past the destroyed grocery store I came across yesterday. It has not been fixed and looks like it's been set on fire. Creepy. At least the streets are vacant.

I blink.

Were there…? Was that a…? No…

It's gone. I'm seeing things again. I thought I've just seen a few people dressed as ninjas…kind of like yesterday, surrounding something. But I can't see them anymore. Maybe whatever Mom had given me as medication is making me delusional.

_There's nothing there, _my mind assures me. But I will forever doubt it. The Narrows are a mystery.

Finally, the truck's engine kicks its rusty, ancient butt into high gear. The sputtering stops and everything runs smoothly again. I get out of that place as fast as I'm allowed. I even go over the speed limit, which is too slow for me right now.

I make it to the Gotham High School parking lot in one piece. So far, I haven't run out of gas. Maybe I'll find some money hiding under the seat and use it to purchase some after school. The clock in the truck reads 7:50. I've got ten minutes.

I crawl into the backseat, and six minutes later, emerge triumphant with another ten dollar bill clenched in my fist. Things are finally beginning to look up. The money and the yellow slips of paper switch places, and I tug my jacket back down from where it's ridden up down to cover my stomach again. After much stumbling and fumbling, I collect my schoolbag after I throw my truck keys into my jacket pocket on a whim. Just making sure I don't lose them again.

"Hello, Rhonda," is how I greet her when I stride into the main office. The leather jacket keeps me from getting cold. I hold up the wrinkled, yellow pass for her to see.

Rhonda smiles at me. "Glad you're feeling better. I'll let Nurse Flemming know you're back. You recovered quickly." She signs the slip as I stand there awkwardly and hands it back to me. "Have fun today."

Bite me.

I give her a fake smile and exit the office.

Somehow, I make it to the music room before the bell rings. But not even chorus makes me feel good today; it only frustrates me as I hunt through stacks of music for a solo piece to sing at our spring concert next month. Mr. Burgess hangs anxiously over my shoulder. Stumped, I assure him, "Don't worry, I'll find something. I'll find something." And all the while my subconscious laughs at my lies. Mr. Burgess moves aside, giving me breathing space, and lets me pick up my musical mess before the bell rings for second class.

I'm ready for school to be over. Art is a pain in the ass. Where are all these negative thoughts coming from? I slump over in my desk and will myself to die as the seconds tick by. Today, I had intentionally chosen _not _to sit by Summer, and because of this, I feel her eyes glaring daggers at the back of my head. I'd bet her blonde curls are shining and glimmering prettily to add to the effect. I'm getting more depressed by the minute. No one but the teachers has said anything to me. It's like I was never gone. Did anyone notice but the teachers? Why is Summer in art class anyway? She draws nothing but flowers, bunnies, and bare-chested men.

The trilling bell sounds. Spanish next. Normally, I'd feel happy because of this class but find myself unable to become enthused.

Out in the hallway, I lean up against my locker, books for Spanish already taken out and noticing that everyone gives me a clearance of about ten feet. They're avoiding me. _I'm not diseased! _I want to yell at them. That's when I notice Summer making her way over to me, a furious look on her perfect face.

Goddamn.

Slamming my locker shut and wearing a frightened look, I search for an escape. Maybe I can pretend I see a friend (what friend?) and have to go off to meet them. I scan the hallway crowds for a familiar face, anyone I can use. My time left on this earth is getting shorter. I suppose the leather jacket and boots don't make me all that approachable. I freeze on the spot, relief washing over me.

Ah. There.

Jonathan Crane is lounging against the opposite set of lockers, observing and analyzing as usual. I wave at him wildly, smiling brightly, and practically jump up and down to get his attention. He spots me with those blues, looking mildly surprised at my enthusiastic antics. Instead of staring at me or ignoring me like he'd usually do, Crane nods at me. He _acknowledges me! _And he stays where he is as I push my way over to him. What a change. But all I do is stride past him, keeping my head down. Summer is now under the impression I've ditched her for Jonathan Crane.

"Thank you," I whisper to him as I pass. Someone shoves me, and I feel a release as my headband slips from my head.

Crane looks behind me, sees a furious Summer in pursuit, and gives me another stiff nod of understanding. I make my hasty way over to the Spanish classroom, looking behind to see a dumbfounded Summer gaping after me. Shock value scores! I'm free.

For now.

I make sure to sit far away from Summer and her prissy little friends, but I also stay away from Paul, so I settle for a seat in the middle row, right in front. Everyone thinks I'm kissing up to Mr. Benedict, being a teacher's pet. Makes me sick, what they think, but this is the only safe haven in the classroom. They're out to get me. Getting a clear path to the door when the bell rings, however, is a different story entirely. I'm always up for a challenge.

I think my leather jacket is scaring people; Mr. Benedict doesn't even stop to say that he's glad to have me back. Wish I had my headband, though. My side-bangs are annoying the heck out of me. I blow them off my forehead to prove a point. Looking over at Summer and her group, I shiver as three out of four of them send me ferocious looks. At least Naomi smiles at me. I smile back and crawl further into my shell.

Summer has managed to establish her study group somewhat close to my singular one, so the only other incident that occurs in class is her trying to trip me with her tiny, stiletto-heeled shoes that probably cost more than my house. I'd been up on my way to sharpen my pencil when it happened, and the attempt had failed miserably, but I was still miffed.

I'll get back to conjugating verbs now.

I finish the assignment with fifteen minutes left for some good reading time. No one bothers me.

The bell rings again to announce the start of lunch period. I sigh. Nothing funny, fun, or exciting ever happens in school. You would think that because it's _Gotham_ High, things would. Wrong. I need something to shake up the day, the year, or I don't know how I'll survive another month of this.

I race to the door with my books, escaping both Summer and Paul. I'm avoiding the very people I had wanted to become at one time. How ironic.

I'm very hesitant about eating lunch here today. I mean, can you really blame me? I didn't bring my money to pay for it, either. So I guess it doesn't make a difference. I walk across the lunchroom to the black chalkboard hanging on the bright white wall. In obnoxiously colored chalk, there are the choices scrawled out in blocky letters. See? Those are the chicken fajitas I'd mentioned a while back. No thank you, sir.

I spot a familiar, battered figure sitting down at the table by the doors. The sun (surprisingly) is shining _again _and I see he's managed to say clear of all trash cans this time. I should congratulate him, but then, I shouldn't. I try and fail to make eye contact with him, so I decide to just go on ahead and walk over.

This time, Summer notices when I don't sit with them. She stares at me, ignoring Craig's attentions as I pass by. I triumphantly send her a look that clearly says, "I'm done with you. Eat dirt."

But that's not saying Crane has accepted me, either. I'm not sure why I'm acting like it. He just tolerates me, I'm sure.

I, for one, can finally see that the lunch program hasn't been banned. Shit.

"Hi there," I say quietly as I approach Crane's table. When he looks at me, a small twitch of annoyance flits across his girly features. I sit down anyway, even if I don't have food.

I don't think he ever learned how to open his mouth and actually vocalize the word "hello".

I tap my fingers on the wooden table, noticing that he, too, has avoided the chicken fajitas. Wow. The kid really is a genius. Unable to find a real conversation starter, I simply study him. True, he is neat to look at (like a zoo animal), but after last night, I'm more concerned about his well-being, so that's more of the reason why I'm "checking him out." There are a few new additions; his glasses are taped, his hair is in his face again (to cover it), and there is a gathering of hand and finger shaped bruises on his slim cheeks and forehead. I wince. _All my fault._

Crane's cool exterior breaks as he shoots me a full-blown death glare with those _eyes._ "Are you finished?" he asks icily. I blush and feel bad for being caught staring at him like he belongs in a circus freakshow.

"Um, yeah." I look down to avoid him.

"Fantastic." The sarcasm seeps into his tone. For someone who fails at keeping conversation, he sure knows how to respond when the occasion calls for it. He can probably outsmart anyone. What he lacks in brawn he sure makes up for in brains.

I get the feeling of being watched, so I snap my gaze up to meet his. And find him staringat me in turn. Cold, calculating, judging…but interested this time. I self-consciously smooth back the frizzy strands of hair from my face, shifting uncomfortably in the hard chair. I wish I had my headband back. I then realize that he is observing me in revenge for my staring at him. He knows fully well what his eyes can do and seems to take quiet joy in it. I allow it to continue for about two or three minutes, turning redder by the second, before stating the obvious.

"You're analyzing me again."

"Why yes, I am." Typical Crane response. I'm getting the awful feeling that I can listen to his voice for days on end.

I feel violated, so I frown at him. "Cut it out."

"Why?" Critical person.

I don't answer. Truthfully, I absolutely despise it when people look at me; I'm self-conscious and am not the biggest fan of my face. Folding my arms on the table, I lean forward and attempt to put him on the defensive. "So, what about you, huh? Going to spill the beans about your war wounds yet?" I gesture at his face.

It works. "No," he states firmly, adjusting his glasses.

"Thought so." I've run out of things to say again. I need to know someone for years before I can have a comfortable conversation with them. I wonder why I'm trying so hard to find out more about Crane, of all the people, an outcast, a reject, a freak.

Crane copies my position and leans closer to me across the table. "My home life is none of your concern."

I snort, deciding to be extremely unfair. "Obviously not, but it is when it keeps you up until three in the goddamn morning—"

"Ames." That stops me dead in my tracks, leaving me doing a very credible imitation of a goldfish. "I'm being completely serious." His face moves a few inches nearer to mine.

I swallow the lump in my throat and pull back, not liking our sudden proximity. He wins. "So am I." My voice is shaking; why?

I just throw it out there, admitting the knowledge at last. "Jonathan, someone has to know." There. I've just told him that I know he has a problem. I also figure out why I'd been temporarily stunned a few seconds ago. It's the first time I've ever heard him say my name. Then I wonder why I even care. We've only been talking for three days or so.

Crane is shaking his head. He, too, has backed off. "No. No one will know." He lets his iron guard down and _slumps_ back in his chair. I'm surprised to see his posture falter. He must've loosened up now that his secret is out (to me, at least). The cool, snooty façade was kept as an attempt to show nothing is wrong. This dawning realization is a slap in the face. Crane continues, "I'll turn eighteen in a month. I daresay I'll survive until then."

"So, you're going to just up and leave?" I ask, crossing my arms. "She'll take that well… In fact, she'll love it. Maybe even let you go."

Crane sighs, probably annoyed that someone of lower intelligence like me is asking a dumb question. "I suspect her reaction will be less than pleasant."

Less than pleasant? I mash my lips together to stifle a giggle. "You put that lightly. You're not the only one who knows what she's like."

"You and you mother need to keep uninvolved."

I shouldn't be worrying over him, but I am anyway. The glares and stares coming from Summer's table make me uncomfortable, but I ignore it. I'm in too deep already. "Mom wants to; I don't." Did I just basically say I wanted to help him? Weird.

"Stay out of it." He raises his voice, and it moves from being annoyed to heavily irritated.

"Yeep! Fine, fine, fine. It's none of my business, I understand; I'm sorry!" I apologize quickly and sarcastically, waving my hands around. Silence again.

I look at the clock. The bell rings in four minutes. Now I'm going to go to Home Ec. in a pissy mod. My reputation is really going uphill today. I don't suppose Crane is planning on apologizing to _me_ anytime soon. It seems like it's simply not in his nature. I blow short hairs out of my face huffily.

…Thinking a little more, I should have actually _meant_ my apology. Here he is getting _abused, _and I'm complaining about losing a little sleep? It makes me appear like I'm caring or worrying about him out of my own self-interest. I hang my head. As much as I try, I really am a terrible person.

"I'm really sorry," I mutter, ashamed. As long as we don't start bickering like an old married couple again… I scratch my nose.

Crane accepts my late apology with a tilt of his head and by lifting one corner of his finely-shaped mouth. Then the unexpected comes.

He pulls my silver headband out of his pants' pocket and offers it to me, dangling it off his index finger. "You dropped this. Here."

"Keep it!" I blurt out automatically. Awkward silence. Then I take it. "Er—thank you…" I squeak out, mortified and wanting to slam my head on the table repeatedly, until I passed out or passed away. I would gladly take either right now. He's gaping at me, silently mocking.

The bell for fourth class saves me, and I do what I usually do with my problems.

I run for it.

* * *

><p>The rest of the day drags by, at least until I get to fifth period. Thank the Lord for American History. Until I realize, (I hadn't noticed it before?) while standing outside the classroom door, that I share this class with Jonathan Crane. At least I'll get the chance to face my problem, this time. I groan.<p>

Once I take a deep breath, I open the door and step inside. Mr. Spade's room is the only one in this school that has a comfortable temperature. Most of the class is already here, except for a few last second stragglers, like me. Crane is here. Gulp. Now I'm getting all red-faced. Had I seriously told him to keep a hairpiece? Yes.

Ugh. Well, I hope he was entertained.

Squaring my shoulders, I keep my head high and march over to the desk next to Crane's, not even sparing a glance at him as I sit down and drop my books onto the desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stiffen momentarily. I must be giving off the impression of a stalker.

I distract myself by glancing around the classroom. The walls are decorated with famous quotes and funny posters of political cartoons. One chalkboard for teaching, another for this week's assignments. A TV and VCR up in one front corner of the room and bookshelves and cabinets at the back. The teacher's desk in the back corner with a new stack of books resting on it.

The teacher himself walks over. Matthew Spade is the youngest teacher at our school, barely a day over twenty-five. Also the most handsome and enthusiastic of them all, many of us girls have had a crush on him at one point. I still kind of do. Maybe. _Guys are a waste of time, _I have to remind myself. But he's hard to ignore, dressed smartly in khakis and a sweater that hugs his muscled chest… _He's your teacher, dammit! _I curse myself.

The man loves his job, is good to his wife, and knows what he's talking about. A terrific sense of humor is always a bonus, too. Mr. Spade makes history _interesting_. Which is why I like it tons more than Spanish now. He has a feminine side, but I guess he _did_ minor in theater, something I like about him, and something that makes him very relatable.

Crane and I ignore each other during class, but I keep sneaking glances at him when I think he (or anyone else) isn't paying attention. Watching him learn and work is…fascinating. He goes absolutely still, never having to look down at the notes he's taking, his hand flying across the notebook. Like a sponge, Crane takes everything in and retains it. He must have a photographic memory. But he never raises his hand to answer questions; he simply writes the answer smugly down on his paper. It's unbelievable; he gets every one right. He never cracks a smile at Mr. Spade's jokes or imitations either. I'm forced to tear my eyes away from him whenever I see his own pair shift toward me.

Crane has a wonderful sixth sense.

With approximately ten minutes left in class, Mr. Spade ends his lecture and makes things interesting. He takes one of the books off the stack on his desk and holds it up. Everything goes into slow motion as I remember that we're currently covering the history of New England. I read the title. And my face splits into the widest grin it's ever known.

No. No we are not—!

Oh my freaking god. _The Crucible. _No way.

We are reading a play in American History class, and that in itself is unusual. Not just any play. _The Crucible._ I've never read it, but it has to do with the Salem witchcraft trials, so I'm excited. Bouncing in my seat, I'm forced to clap my hands over my mouth to stifle the squeal of excitement bubbling on my lips. Next to me, Crane rolls his eyes, knowing my theatre obsession.

Mr. Spade is grinning at me, loving my reaction. Looking around the room I realize that no one, I mean, NO ONE, looks even remotely excited by the notion of doing something different in school.

Oh. I get it. One: it's a book. Two: they have to read. Three: they have to read _out loud._ What babies. C'mon, I KNOW there are other theatre lovers here. I've been in plays with these people before.

Mr. Spade begins passing out the scripts. "Yes, in case you haven't guessed already, over the next month, we will be taking some class time to read Arthur Miller's _The Crucible_. None of you need to look so enthusiastic," he adds dryly, spicy brown eyes boring into us. _How're we casting parts? C'mon, tell us! _I think desperately.

After Mr. Spade explains a little more about why we're doing this, he holds up a sheet of paper. "This sign-up sheet will be going around the room for the rest of the time here. All the characters are labeled as having a major or minor role," he says matter-of-factly. "Basically, you will be reading a lot or reading a little." I notice a few girls straightening up in their desks, eager to become involved for the sake of impressing Mr. Matthew Spade.

Uh oh.

For your information, once you're an actress, you are able to sniff out competition from a hundred miles away. And that's what I'm getting a whiff of right now.

"Official reading will start on Monday." I watch in despair as Mr. Spade gives the sign-up sheet to the students on the opposite side of the room, ensuring that I'd be one of the ones to get it last. There goes my Abigail Williams. I bristle at the thought of a snotty girl signing up for the part because she likes hearing the sound of her own voice and thinks she's better than she really is and just…grrr. I literally growl out loud. Just my luck. I've wanted this so much! And now it's been taken away.

Crane shoots me a sidelong glance.

Suddenly, I hear a whine from the other side of the room. Destiny Holder is scowling, flipping her hair around, and raising her hand all at the same time. What talent. "Mr. Spade," she croons, "why does it say 'Not Available' next to Abigail Williams' part? Isn't she, like, the main girl?" She bats her eyelashes at him and leans forward to display her generous cleavage, which I lack. I gag. She's one of those girls who would graduate by sleeping their way through school.

"Well, Destiny," he says gently, folding his arms, "I've set that part aside for someone."

Destiny pouts. "What?" she squeaks. "For who?"

Mr. Spade turns and, to my surprise, looks at me, running a hand through his boyishly cut brown hair. "Ames Manson." Everyone looks at me. I sink lower into my seat. Mr. Spade walks over to me and places a smaller hand on my broad shoulder. "I knew you'd want it. You're welcome."

Eh. How nice of him. "Thank you," I mumble clumsily. Was he allowed to do something like this? I get the feeling that all the girls in the room are trying to make my vital organs explode with their ditzy minds.

"Of course," he whispers. Then he turns and warns the rest of them, "If you don't sign up for a role, I'll have to assign them. So spare yourself the embarrassment."

Three minutes later, he's holding up the sheet of paper, clucking his tongue sadly. "Not even a John Proctor or a Judge Hawthorne? Mercy Lewis? Class, I'm disappointed. Only the minor roles have been filled" With a not-so-normal, uncharacteristically steely voice, he gives away the remaining roles, leaving John Proctor for last.

Mr. Spade paces around the room, thinking. "As for John Proctor…" he trails off. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers and points at a student, in my direction. "You two have nearly the same first name, so how about it? Jonathan Crane will be John Proctor."

Did NOT see that one coming. This time, I look at Crane fully, knowing very well what happens and what _has _happened between our two characters. I don't need this! More rumors spread because of a single play. But I cackle as I see Jonathan's reaction. I'm going to greatly enjoy seeing Crane out of his comfort zone. He's so scientifically grounded, and something like this is _way_ on the other end of his spectrum.

Crane's blue eyes are slightly widened in horror, and he is frozen, cool guard torn down, holding his "script" like it's going to bite his nose off. He sends a nasty look my way after a while and I shrug and look on innocently. "I had nothing to do with it," I mouth at him. Crane is very, very irked, and now every day in class for the rest of the school year, I'm being forced to interact with him, whether I want to or not. A whole month of being subjected to rumors and other forms of unpleasantness. With _Crane._

Do I feel sympathy or dislike for him?

But I guess the show must go on. It's nice to casually sit back in your desk, knowing just how enthusiastic you're about to get.

I smile. God help everyone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Voila! Chapter Five is done! I thought it would never come. The next chapter will have to do a lot with Ames' past and her father, so if you want to know a little history on her, tune in. I will try to update on time, but it will be in the evening. Sadly, our school's filter has blocked fanfiction, so I do not have access to a computer in the morning, just the evenings.**

**I keep forgetting to tell you folks this, but I AM open to any suggestions or ideas that you'd like to give. You may just be surprised.**

**Please review! Funny parts? Good lines? I wanna know! It won't take much of your time, I swear… THANKS TO EVERYONE!**

**Question of the Day: What annoys you? (Other than Mary Sues…)**


	6. Give Me Something To Work With!

**A/N: First of all, for this chapter, I had intended for it to be a LOT longer, to the point where it was TOO long as just one chapter. As a result, I've posted this one for now, and the next one will be slightly shorter. Warning: there is a helluva lot of description and singing in this chapter, and there will be in the next one, too. I really hope that is all right.**

**In the beginning of this chapter, I make a statement that Summer ends up with the role of Elizabeth Proctor for American History. ALL CREDIT FOR THIS IDEA GOES TO **My Purple Skies. **Though there isn't a large part of this right now, there will be later. This goes to show that if you give me a great idea, I might just use it.**

**Thanks ****goes ****to**ChocolateShapeshifter, chibigurl305, Arlena4815162342, pourquoibella, Comidia Del Arte, ninjapoke, thexdarkestxnightsx, RoflingCupcake, Starrycat05, My Purple Skies**, ****and** Silential **for ****the ****reviews!**

**Hmmm...what annoys me most of all are arrogant people and cocky jocks. And about a million other things I don't have the time to write down now.**

**Can any of you spot the _Repo!_ reference toward the end? ;)**

**Disclaimer: I own Batman characters and plots in my dreams. The lyrics aren't mine, either. If you plagiarize, I'm afraid the Joker will have to get involved :( (I know that some of you would like that...)**

**THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REVISED.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six: Give Me Something To Work With!<strong>

_Your body's lightin' up the room._

_I want a naughty girl like you._

_There's nothing harder to do._

_**~My Darkest Days, Porn Star Dancing**_

* * *

><p>Freedom!<p>

I zoom out into the parking lot once the final bell rings, nearly smashing through the glass doors. The bright sun blinds me. Out of pure laziness, I throw everything into the bed of the truck before climbing into the driver's seat. Around me, students are spilling out of the doors, filled with the joy that the weekend brings to all ages. The key at this point is to wait until mostly everyone leaves. Engines rev up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Summer stalking past me to her brand-new Mercedes Benz. Why does everyone have to be so damn rich? But anyway, she's sour about something, and I'm sure it's not because I ditched her for Crane. Quite hilariously, Summer has been "cast" as Elizabeth Proctor for American History. I guess she found out she was Jonathan's betrayed "wife", the wife of one of the people she looked down on most in this world. It must be so horrifying for her. As for me, it looks like we two are enemies in all aspects now. Funny how things work, isn't it?

Smirking to myself, I fiddle with the radio dial, getting nothing but the buzz of static as I watch Summer and just about everyone else pull out of the parking lot at top speed. The trick to making it out in one piece is to wait until the reckless people leave so you don't get banged up.

The twiggy figure of Crane catches my attention briefly as he exits the school, carrying a boatload of books in his scrawny arms. It's a wonder they don't snap under their weight. He supports them as though he's used to it. I _know_ he sees me gawking at him, because he looks up, freezes, electrifies me with a scowl, and _completely_ blows me off. He speeds up. I feel a bit stung (I shouldn't care), but honestly, what had I been expecting? Buddy time? I suppose he's still pissed off about the whole being cast as John Proctor thing. And he blames me, on top of it all. Ignoring my presence make sense.

One moment, he's letting me in, little by little, and the next, he acts like I don't exist. This wants fixing.

Crane strides over to a rusty-looking station wagon parked five spaces down from my truck. While I'd always wondered how he got to school every day, I never expected him to own a _car_. I'd always thought he rode a bike or walked or something… _Ames, from where we live, that would take more than two hours. I highly doubt it._ Where had he gotten the car? And how the hell had he gotten _Geraldine Crane_ to agree to it? Um, maybe that's a subject best not touched on, lest I be on the receiving end of one of his bone-withering death glares.

I'm surprised he's not giving another one to me right now, seeing that I'm hanging about halfway out of my window to see what he's doing, with static crackling in the background.

He opens the dinged door and tosses his books carefully into the seat. Crane swings his ratty bookbag down from his shoulder and hunts through it for what I assume are his car keys. I bet someone took them, for he throws his bag into the car before raking a hand through his long hair. Strange thing is, he doesn't look stressed, unlike me when I'd thought I'd lost my own pair this morning. Jonathan simply kneels down beside his car, sticks his upper body into it, and gets to work. The panel pops off.

My mouth falls open.

Jonathan Crane knows how to hotwire a car.

My eyebrows go up in automatic disbelief. That's one for the books. I'd bet all my pennies that Craig took Jonathan's keys as a sick joke. Without a doubt, he won't give them back to me. Or Crane.

Seeing that Jonathan is still going at it (hotwiring…), I figure that he probably needs some form of help. Now, I don't know squat about automobiles, except how to name them. But I'll try… I pity him.

I hop out of the truck and slam my door. The loud sound causes Crane to stand up sharply, not quite jumping in alarm. It's more like he's been put on alert, cautious. But the sad thing is that he nearly nails his head on the door when he rises. He sees me coming toward him, boots clicking against the pavement, and crouches back down to his wires, working furiously. I think he's trying to escape me.

"Having troubles?" I call out to him, only about ten feet away. Ironically, at that moment, the station wagon jolts a little and revs up. Oh.

"Never," he responds coolly. Crane keeps his back to me as I approach but finally turns around when his indifference and oozing creepiness don't send me running off in the other direction. I notice that he's unbuttoned his shirt collar enough to bare the long expanse of his pale neck, mottled with scratches and bruises. However, when he spies me studying them, he moves his deft fingers to button it back up.

I almost tell him to leave it be, to be a normal guy, (to let me look some more, out of concern), but figure I'd already pushed my luck with him today when I'd impulsively asked him to keep my tacky headband… I reach up to my hair and touch it as I recall my not-so-proudest moment. I hope he's forgotten.

Crane finishes with his shirt and slides into his driver's seat as quickly and as smoothly as he can. The windows are rolled up; it's got to be hot in there. Should've left his collar undone; I myself have taken off my leather jacket, revealing the tank top beneath. And without so much as a how-do, Crane slams the door on me and leaves me in his snooty dust. _Wow. Is it all really a façade?_ I ask myself. _Or is he angry with me for no good reason? Maybe he doesn't want friends…_

Want them? More like he doesn't need them…but as much as I hate to admit it, no one should be alone. And Crane is heading that depressing direction.

"Screw it," I gripe as I slide into my still-running truck. To hell with making friends. I don't need him, and he certainly doesn't need me, my concern, or my help. I take one look at the radio's clock and nearly have a heart attack. It tells me that I need to get my sorry ass to work. Friday nights usually bring large crowds, and Saturdays haul in even larger ones. Thank god it's Friday.

The place I work is a nightclub and bar evening and night. A kind of cabaret, so to speak. Not to mention that it's located on the nonexistent border between the lower-class half of the city and the high, fancy, wealthy district of Gotham. We get everyone from middle-aged businessmen to aspiring college students, from common folk to druggies, and from cops…to mobsters. Wonderland is where I work, and hopefully, with the help of me and a few girls, it will become a hot spot for…anything. I'm only a "backup" or "pre-show" singer for our main attraction, Sarah Garland.

She's our star. Even her name sounds theatrical. And she works the Fridays and Saturdays. I can never be the kind of star that she is. My performances are liked and mediocre at best.

I pull onto a street flooded with vendors and shops that sell miscellaneous and unusual items. It's a colorful place, full of different things and characters. And right smack-dab in the middle of it all, is Wonderland. It's only 4:30, but in Gotham, the light of day fades fast, so the curly, neon red letters can be seen flashing very brightly by this time. I drape my jacket over my arm.

As the simple glass door opens, a surprisingly cheery tinkle of bells sounds, contrasting with the smooth jazz gracing the atmosphere. Wonderland officially opens at five o'clock in the evening. The air smells faintly of cigarette smoke, heady alcohol, and sweet perfume, making an interesting (but not at all unpleasant) aroma. The lights have been dimmed, giving the large place a warm red-gold glow, and it will become even darker when the show starts. On opposite sides of the room are the bar (for those who come to drink) and the stage (for those who come to…er—get off). The stage, surrounded by gold curtains the same shade as the carpet, takes up two-thirds of the room, large enough to hold a band, the performers, and to allow the performer(s) to sashay around to their (and the audience's) liking. There are even a short flight of steps at the front of the stage that descend down into the dozens of dark mahogany tables if you want to give the customers their money's worth.

I've never used them. Even if you're _not_ a stunning blonde bombshell like Sarah Garland, some men can't keep their hands to themselves.

"Ames, m'dear! You're alive!" A small, portly, and balding man comes barreling out of one of the dressing rooms. I pull on my jacket to cover my tank top.

"Hi, Mr. Sorvino. Yeah, I think I am." I smile at our friendly, overdramatic manager. I can't help but feel cheery in his presence. The crinkly-eyed man grins at me and kisses my hand before giving it a fatherly pat. "How were nights in my absence?"

Mr. Arnold Sorvino shudders theatrically, straightening his crisp, dark gray suit. "Absolutely, positively horrific. Zora cannot sing at all! We had people leaving…" He lowers his voice to a whisper, gesturing with his animated hands. "The promise of Sarah's show was the only reason some of them stayed."

I brush past Mr. Sorvino, who seems about two feet shorter than me, and weave through tables to get to one of the dressing rooms. He waddles comically after me, his important, stately voice listing off his complaints. "Sir, you're not being very fair. She didn't have a heads-up, no time to practice." I duck to avoid a hanging light. "See where I'm coming from?"

Mr. Sorvino huffs and easily scoots under the light fixture. "Yes, yes, but Ames, darling, it's better that we have you."

"Eh," I comment, tired of arguing and false praises. "Be happy to have Sarah. Not me." I stop outside one of the secondary dressing rooms, trying not to let my resentment show. I wait for Mr. Sorvino to catch up.

Eventually, he does. Breathing heavily, he pulls out a lacy handkerchief to mop at his balding, graying head. "Sweetheart, Sarah's in the business for the fame and fortune, we all know that. And she's gorgeous. She looks like Veronica Lake…" he adds wistfully. I patiently wait for him to cease drooling. He remembers himself. "But you've got heart. You do this because you love it, kid." He waggles his index finger at me in a scolding way, a very (rare) serious look on his face. Mr. Sorvino's eyes are definitely proud, but I don't see why. "Don't you ever doubt yourself."

One of _those_ corny speeches.

I nod obediently, raising my eyebrows.

Mr. Sorvino takes a step back and appraises my outfit. "Are you wearing that tonight?" I can't tell if he likes or dislikes it. Off to our left, the band starts to assemble. Meaning only one thing: people are filing in. Skimpily clad waitresses are exiting the dressing rooms. Twenty minutes until showtime.

"Is this, um, acceptable? I need to fix my hair and stuff. But no makeup," I warn him as my hair comes tumbling down out of its ponytail. The silver-sequined headband is the only thing keeping the unruly ash-brown waves back.

Mr. Sorvino nods. "I like it. Dangerous sort of feel." I smile and hug the leather jacket around my awkwardly shaped frame. "Still Pat Benatar tonight?"

I open the door to the dressing room partway. "Yep. 'Anxiety' and a good old round of 'Heartbreaker'."

"Fabulous. You know your stuff."

"That's why you hired me," I call out as I begin to shut the door on him.

Mr. Sorvino sticks his small foot in the door. "What about tomorrow night?"

I smile, remembering. "It's a long one. I'm planning on Nina Simone. Band still got it?"

"Sure thing, darling." He lets me go with a wink. "Oh, by the way, we're giving Sarah the night off tomorrow. You'll be the main attraction. Glad you feel better." The door slams shut, leaving me in dumfounded silence, standing in the middle of the radiantly lit room. It hurts my eyes.

Holy—! Am I really...?

I stop myself from spinning in circles around the room, reminding myself that this is only one night. _They probably just want to see how you'll handle the pressure. It doesn't mean anything._ They will never, ever give up Sarah again. It's just this once. And surprisingly, I'm not freaking out about it. It must not have walloped me in the ass yet.

I sit down in front of the vanity. The mirror shoots a number of different reflections at me from all sides; the overly bulbous bulbs shine with enough light to power Gotham. I've always found those strangely unnecessary. They blind you before you can actually see your reflection, allowing you to paint on a Ghostface face before you can see what you're doing to yourself.

_Ssssss…_goes the spray of the hairspray can I'd grabbed off the vanity. With my head hanging upside down and my hair nearly touching the floor, I attack the mess with stickiness, hoping to give my mop more volume. That's all I can do to myself. I flip my head back up to see the result.

I have a lion's mane for hair, a very long afro. It's extremely messy. Replacing my sparkly headband, I turn right and left, angling my head. It's strangely becoming. The retro-looking clock on the wall tells me that there's ten minutes until showtime, and I'm not nervous yet. I used to get so anxious, but after a while…

The door bangs open, and Mr. Sorvino sticks his shining head through it. "Ames, get your arse by the stage! The band's already on!" He's in manager mode, not in his fatherly mode. One hundred percent serious. "We got a full house."

_For Sarah. _I roll my eyes at his sudden change in attitude and follow him out into the lively, flowing atmosphere.

I can't see much from where I'm standing now, so the moment I take the steps up to the stage, I peek out of the curtain to judge our numbers. Oh! Um, a fair-sized crowd…yeah, it's huge. I let out a breath and retreat, starting to get the shakes. What I really need to do is stop thinking about it. The stage (hidden behind the curtains now) is completely dark, and I'm used to it, but you still have to kind of feel your way around to get to your place. I've accidentally groped an innocent band member once or twice.

In preparation for the show, the squeal of the electric guitar reaches my ears, along with the quieter clash of a cymbal and the thud of a bass guitar. Even after working here for a few months, I still don't know the names of all the members. The only thing I do know is that they shift to jazz instruments when my pre-show is done, and that the lead guitarist is very attractive. I usually do two songs, but am slowly working my way up to three. And now, all the band is doing is testing out instruments before we start, which will be soon.

I really hope I'm standing in the right spot… Oh, there's the microphone right in front of me…

"Tonight, we are proud and glad to welcome back one of our youngest performers. For the past two days, she's been feeling a bit under the weather, I'm afraid. But she's back!" Mr. Sorvino's rich voice booms over the loudspeaker. I hope he never says that again.

And just like that, my nervousness is gone. I smile. This is what I do best. He continues, "I know you missed your weeknight entertainment, so please warmly welcome back, Ames Manson!" A round of thinly scattered applause. I grab the mike and turn it on. That's our cue.

I make a split second decision and turn around, with my back to the curtains.

The low, quick pulse of the guitar at the beginning fills me with excitement. The curtains open as I add my whisper to the intro. "_Get nervous, get nervous. Get nervous, get nervous, get nervous."_

I spin around as the stage lights fly on and the drums start and the electric guitar fires up. I manage a few good headbangs in before I whisper again. "_Get nervous, get nervous, get nervous. Get nervous, get nervous."_

All movement stops as I begin the first verse. "_I feel a little shaky; I can't control my nerves…_" As I sing, I force my voice to take on a panicky edge, complimenting the song and my wild-eyed look. I belt my heart out and the band is fantastic.

I stroll around stage, not caring how many mobsters fill the tables or even the fact that the crowd's loving it. I'm performing just for me and for me alone. Midway through the song, I walk straight up the middle of the stage to the very edge, stopping just in front of those stairs. But I won't go down them. Never.

Instead, I bend over and lower my voice for the upcoming line. "_Can't you hear my heartbeat? Hear the way it sounds? Can't you hear my heartbeat? Hear the way it pounds?"_ Straightening up, I stick one arm in the air. "_JUST GIVE ME SOMETHING TO SLOW IT DOWN! YEAH…"_

During the following guitar solo, one guy even stands up and whistles.

I go through another verse before hitting the final chorus, moving back to center stage. "_Anxiety, got me on the run. Anxiety, I just need someone. Anxiety, can't get nothing done. Anxiety, spoils all the fun."_ I quiet down, returning to whispers. "_Get nervous, get nervous. Get nervous, get nervous. Get nervous, get nervous."_

Smiling broadly through the last chords, I move my body some more before the song ends. Turning off my microphone temporarily and having sweat drip down my face (okay, the jacket is a little warm, especially under these lights), I acknowledge the polite cheers and applause before gesturing graciously at the band (all men) behind me.

"Heartbreaker" is even more of a hit, even though, to my disdain and inward wincing, my voice cracks twice. I think my face is going to split in half from smiling so much. I'm almost excessively happy, unlike Sarah Garland. She's learned to control her emotions to the point where it's almost scary. I put the mike back in the stand for her, and the curtains close to the last round of applause.

Mr. Sorvino catches me in a bone-crushing hug before I can flee to one of the round tables pushed up against the far wall. I just want to watch Sarah perform, to see how she does it. How she can make men obsessed with her by simply batting an eyelash at them. After a few praises and more fatherly pats on the head, I'm free to shrug my jacket off and wait for the next show.

A cool surge of air rushes to my armpits. Oh wow. Relief. I realize in the scarlet-gold atmosphere that I'm sitting in the shadows. Hopefully, they shield me from people. Now that my performances are finished, I'm turning back into my old, anti-social self again. I cross my arms and lean the cushioned chair back against the smooth crimson wall, nearly whacking my head on a spherical dangling light again.

Blast those things.

One of the many simply but provocatively clad waitresses bustles over and sits next to me. It's Zora. She high-fives me before chirping, "Ames, I was watching you from the audience. You were fantastic!"

"My voice cracked a few times." I secretly envy her, the cute form that's being tightly hugged by a strapless blue dress that barely covers her butt. She's not a slut; it's a uniform thing. Zora's ten times more gorgeous than I'll ever be. She's thin, for one thing, with straight jet-black hair cut sharply in a stylish bob around her golden-toned face and a pair of deep-set amber eyes that always glow a coppery-gold in any kind of light. She is…exotic-looking. I will never, ever be that lovely.

She raises an eyebrow at me.

Shaking off the pang of jealousy, I duck my head, hiding behind my hair, and continue, "Thanks, but it wasn't my best show."

It sounds like I'm reaching out for sympathy. Or attention.

Zora blows her bluntly cut bangs off her forehead in exasperation. "Oh, shut up! You're too modest. Everyone knows you're better than _me_ at least." She nudges me with her slim elbow. "My voice kept breaking, and I was so nervous…" Biting her lip in worry, my coworker looks to me for consolation.

"It wasn't fair for you; you weren't prepared." The plinking of the piano, the strumming of a few string instruments, and the deep sound of Mr. Sorvino's voice announcing catch my attention. "Let's not talk. Sarah's going to start." I sit upright, resting my elbows on my thighs and paying suddenly rapt attention.

While I ignore Zora's comment of, "I don't see what's so special about her," the lights dim down accordingly to sensual hues that make anyone on stage look smoldering, warm, and untouchable. Like a vision or a goddess. They are reserved for only Sarah. Starstruck, I wait along with everyone else for the curtains to open and for Ms. Garland to be revealed.

She surprises us by opening with her voice, instead of with her body. A low, soft, and sultry tone. "_You had plenty of money in 1922…"_

Damn, this is going to be one sexy song. As the causal plucking of strings picks up the mood, Sarah emerges from behind the scarlet curtains to the sounds of wolf-whistles and cheers. My mouth drops open, as it usually does, at her sheer glamorousness. What is Mr. Sorvino thinking? Having someone like me replace a siren like her, even if only for a night? I'm the ugly ogre cousin in comparison. Depressed, I can't help but admire her anyway. She's addicting to watch. I'm straight, as well.

Sarah holds the microphone delicately to her full, pouty red lips, crooning out the smooth tune in her classical, chilling voice. So smoky-sounding…how does she do it? She simply sashays slowly around stage, turning her magnificent body this way and that for admiration, moving her hips entrancingly for the men.

…Wow. I let out a breath. That's it; I'm done. Beside me, Zora's actually as enraptured as I.

"I have no words," I whisper.

Sarah and I are complete polar opposites. We are both very tall…and that's where the similarities end. Tonight, Sarah is wearing a slinky, glittering black gown that clings to her body as it falls to her feet, with an extremely low back that draws all attention to her curvy rear (how she manages to have those slim thighs and calves, I'll never know) and a daringly deep-cut front that barely covers the D-size breasts hovering above her tiny waist. She certainly has nothing against showing her flawless, perfectly creamy skin. The left side of the dress has a long slit traveling all the way up to her thigh, and a diagonal slit stretches across her abdomen, fastened at intervals with six-pointed rhinestone stars and baring small spaces of her flat stomach. Miniscule black stilettos encase her small, graceful feet.

"_Why don't you do right, like some other men do?"_ She's descended the stairs. I crane my neck to keep her in my line of vision.

Sarah's fluffy white-blonde hair, waving and curling in just all the right places, brushes her lower back while swooping bangs cover one huge, doe-eye the color of smoky quartz. Its twin winks at the audience every now and then. Add the plump, crimson lips and the cute ski-jump nose to her appearance…and you've got one hell of an Aphrodite or Helen of Sparta. Mr. Sorvino is right; she does look like Veronica Lake. Only better.

"_Get out of here. Get me some money, too."_ She really plays up that line, rubbing her fingers together and snubbing men as she weaves in and out of tables. She's playing hard to get.

If only I could act like that and be wanted as badly… If only I _looked _like that! I try to take in as much as I can, wanting to _be_ her. Zora rapidly waves her hand in front of my face. "Ames, snap out of it! People will think you swing the other way." Even that doesn't faze me. I keep watching Sarah slink around the tables to the alluring jazz, turning men on with the lightest touch or the briefest glance.

My eyes fall upon two men sitting at a table near ours. And they are the only ones in the room who _don't_ have their eyes glued to Sarah…their eyes are fixed on me. I'm not really anything to look at, so I stare back quizzically. These guys look all too familiar; I've definitely seen them around before. And not just here. I take in their expensive suits, their clean-cut style. These men have power.

Then, it hits me. I've seen them before.

Mobsters. The crime family.

Under _him._

My heart skips a few beats before it kicks back to life. My brain spins…I have to…I have to get out of here. I can't think! Why can't I think? Filled with the heaviest sense of dread and anger, I let out a shuddering breath and temporarily run my hands through my hair and over my face. The hate and fear that begins filling me up like a balloon is astounding. Pretty soon, I'm going to burst if I don't do something.

_Leave. Just leave._

"Ames, are you all right?" Zora puts a hand on my shoulder.

A bit of weakness leaks into my voice. "No," I groan, torn between crying and laughing hysterically. It's a strangled sound, like a cow choking. I'm overheated and nervous. On top of that, my hands can't seem to stop shaking. I'm sure my face is stark white and taut.

"What's wrong? Talk to me!" she adds after I don't answer right away.

Think of a lie.

I make myself mumble, "…don't…feel good… Poisoning…still in system…" I don't know if she has enough information to know what I'm referring to, but she buys it. "Tell Mr. Sorvino…left and that I'll be here…eight tomorrow." I add a pathetic whimper at the end.

Getting up from the table, I don't wait to hear Zora's response. Two pairs of cold but all-too-interested eyes follow me out the door.

I need air.

Once outside, (I'd ended up in the back alley of all places. Idiot.), I find it harder and harder to suppress the trauma, pain, and red-hot fury bubbling beneath the surface of my skin. Memories rush at me. Tears sting my eyes. _Daddy…_ I silently snap.

"Falcone…"

It rips its way out of my chest but is an enraged, hoarse whisper, and blindly, I turn and slam my hand into the concrete wall beside me. The skin of my right palm splits.

The jolt of pain brings me back to reality. Breathing heavily, I stare at the red beading up along the side of my dominant fist.

Brilliant, Ames. Brilliant. I'd needed that just like I needed someone firing a nail gun into my ass.

Can anger and revenge really drive a person to attempt to put their hand through a stone wall? I violently chastise myself for my loss of control, wiping my bleeding hand on my jeans and walking past dumpsters to get to the front of the Wonderland establishment.

What had happened…had happened six years ago, but it's still fresh in my mind. I will never get over it. The cruelty of one man.

I calm down enough to think clearly again. Even though it's nighttime, my drive through the Narrows is uneventful. The only beings on the streets are a few drug dealers here and there, but no one tries to assault my truck, or me, for that matter. I'm normally not home this early on work nights, so at least Mom might be happy to see me.

Thanks to the jog to my memory, I recall that I've seen both those men (together at the same time) at least three or four times over two months. Always watching me. Gotham is full of creepers, but I don't understand how something like _this_ can slip my mind. I'm being followed. Watched.

And I know how they know who I am.

If I looked like my _mother,_ it would've been a lot harder for them to track me down. If I looked like _her_, I'd be prettier, but more importantly, life would be somewhat more peaceful. But I hadn't been born that lucky, and so, I'd been found, easily identified as the child of a traitor.

Hands down, I'd taken after my father. We are identical.

Genetics are a bitch.

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><p><strong>AN: Chapter Six! As I said earlier, Chapter Seven will have even more singing in it, but will deal even MORE with Ames' past, so you won't be kept in mystery for long. Chapter Seven may be shorter. ****I AM OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS!**

**Sarah Garland's performance is strongely based on Jessica Rabbit's performance in _Who __Framed __Roger __Rabbit?._ If you want to get an idea of what she's like and how she sounds, you know where to go and what to look up. I even used the same song, because it was the one, and I couldn't hear anything else past that.**

**For _Wicked_ fans, please tell me I'm not the only one. But does anyone else feel the strong urge to cry whenever you hear "As Long As You're Mine"? Or the "No One Mourns the Wicked" phrase?**

**"The Blue Wraith" (or Wrath) by I Monster. Look it up. I dare you not to burst out laughing.**

**REVIEW MY PRETTIES! REVIEEEEEW!**

**Question of the Day: Who is the most underrated actor or actress out there?**

**Thanks and love to everyone :)**


	7. Mark It Up!

**A/N: I thought this chapter would be a shorter one...I guess not. Lots of singing to come!**

**Anyone look up "The Blue Wraith"?**

**As for the actor thing, I choose either Cillian Murphy, or definitely Jackie Earle Haley.**

**The version of Falcone in this chapter is how I pictured a younger version of himself. Not really that different, but remember that it's 1993.**

**Thanks ****to **LittleMissAngel, Silential, thexdarkestxnightsx, ChocolateShapeshifter, pourquoibella, My Purple Skies, **and** Comidia Del Arte **for ****all ****the ****reviews! ****Thanks ****to ****anyone ****who ****put ****me ****on ****alert/faves, ****too!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except my characters and the plot. Not the lyrics either. No need to throw a hissy fit. Plagiarism results in bad things. Can't tell you anything except that it includes marshmallow creame and fire ants.**

**THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REVISED.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven: Mark It Up!<strong>

_They're out ta' get me!_

_They won't catch me!_

_I'm fuckin' innocent!_

_They won't break me!_

_**~Guns N' Roses, Out Ta' Get Me**_

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><p>I'm sitting in <em>Sarah Garland's<em> dressing room, gnawing off my fingernails while Zora tries, with much difficulty, to transform me into some sort of beauty queen suitable for the audience's choosy eyes. So far, she's combed the heck out of my hair and managed to braid it to the right side of my head, all the while plopping some fancy black hat on it, and we've both agreed on ripped tights, my black boots, and a black skirt with a diagonally slashed hem. Presently, our disagreement is centered around the fact that I want to wear a plain, white button-up shirt with flared sleeves instead of the lacy scraps of fabric she's currently trying to force over my head.

"Ames, hold still! You need to look sexy, not old! Ugh, here, I'll do—" I accidentally elbow her in the gut in order to escape. She doubles over and the breath whooshes out of her. She looks up at me with annoyed bronze eyes. "Ow. That really hurt." Her arms hug her stomach.

I'm standing on the other side of the room, next to the closet, and I'm sorely tempted to jump in it and lock myself in, anything to escape the horrid, skimpy _thing_ she wants me to wear. It can't even be classified as clothing. Zora said it would look fine because I've got a small torso, but I'd argued back that it would throw the rest of my body out of proportion.

Still, I do feel bad for elbowing her.

Zora throws her arms in the air. "Fine! I give up. I'm going to go save my strength for the makeup battle." I cringe. Screw a battle; that'll be war.

I _am_ triumphant in our scuffle over the shirt, so I happily stick my arms into the clean sleeves, loving how loose they become at the elbows. As I button it up, I leave the top four undone, mostly to appease Zora's wounded pride, showing her that I can try and fail to be a little hotter. Unfortunately, I don't see the point of attempting to show cleavage when your genetics stick you with breasts the size of walnuts.

"I think you're gonna leave a bruise," Zora mumbles, examining a red splotch on her toned abdomen. She glances up at me, and her grimace of pain turns into a grin of surprise. "Hey, you know what? That doesn't look half-bad. Very piratey."

I cross my arms to hide my chest. "I told you so," I grumble. Just…go with your first instinct. Usually works. I peek into the mirror. "I may lose the hat."

Zora nods. "Yep. You need a bandana." She pulls a red length of cloth from her bag on the vanity.

What else does she keep in there?!

Zora folds it a few times before walking over to my side of the room, knocking the small hat to the floor, and tying it round my head. After she pulls a few strands of hair around my face and weaves a red ribbon through my braid, she presses a pair of large gold hoops into my still-hurt hand (it's bruised, scabbed over, and looks disgusting) and demands that I put them on.

I reluctantly place the hated things in my ears (thank god Mom had gotten mine pieced when I was six) and wait for her comments. It's so nice of her to help me out like this, I'll hate to admit. Zora walks back to the humongous vanity with a silly, approving smile. "I think we've got it."

I follow her and examine myself with a quizzical look and ponder all the accessories. "I think we're giving the song away." I look like a Blackbeard wannabe who's decided to cross-dress. "Sarah never wore anything like this. You have to admit, compared to her; I'm not much to look at."

Zora snorts and shoves me down in the chair in front of the brightly bulbed mirror. "Next to her? None of are. But just think; when you're twenty-nine, she'll be forty-one."

I drown myself in pity and sulk in my chair, slouching. "Face it; Mr. Sorvino made a mistake. No one can walk in Sarah's shoes. I can't grab ties a-and sit on laps. That's not my forte." I slap my hand against the vanity, and Zora knocks me on the arm.

"Behave." She forces me to sit up straight and wheels me around in the chair to face her, looking into my eyes. "Your insecurity is going to be the only thing holding you back in your life. Get over it, and you can do anything."

_Easy to say, with a face like yours. _I stare at her, not wanting to see that she's right. Why is she so supportive all of the sudden? We've never seen each other as anything other than coworkers before. "Let's talk about happy things," I beg her. The fact alone that I'm actually keeping conversation with someone stuns me.

"Okay, then." She holds up small pots and brushes. "Makeover!"

"That is NOT a happy thing!" I try to bolt from the chair. "Ach! No makeup!" I'm restrained. I can handle stage makeup, but…

"You need to look completed. Hold still and shut up." At least she's frank with me.

I stay put, tortured, as Zora smears skin-colored goop all over my face. I've been blessed with clear skin, but that's about my only good trait. So needless to say I don't see the point of caking my skin with this crap. The next thing she does is attack my eyelids and rims with an instrument that reminds me of a soft black colored pencil (eyeliner, I think). She goes nuts and presses the pencil so hard to my sensitive tissues that I whimper in complaint, afraid she's going to gouge out my eyes.

After painting me in dark brown eyeshadow up to my brow bone, she blinds me with the mascara brush, clumping my eyelashes together and accidentally jabbing my eyeball twice. My eyes water and I blink rapidly. "Cut it out!" I hiss at Zora. "I don't know much about this stuff, but I think this is _way_ too much!" She slaps magenta blush on my cheeks.

"Almost done," she assures me, beaming. Almost? She smears fire-engine red lipstick on my mouth.

Uh oh.

From the bag, Zora withdraws a small instrument that resembles (to me, at least) some sort of Medieval torture instrument. "What is that?" I squeak out.

"Relax, Ames. It's just an eyelash curler." She opens and closes it twice, the metal making menacing clicking noises. It reminds me of a pair of scissors. "I've seen this done two ways. Some people use it before or after you put mascara on. We'll do after."

Does she really think I care about technique? And aren't my eyelashes gummed together enough? If you have to go through this much strife to look pretty, I don't think I want to be a woman anymore.

Zora makes it quick. I feel a clamp and a tug on both eyes, and then we're finished. I feel so strange. She spins me around to face the mirror. I keep my done-up eyes closed. "Look at yourself," Zora tells me.

I do. "What have you done to me?" I wail, shocked.

"Made you into a pirate babe."

"I'm a dirty pirate hooker."

I don't look like myself. I'm not a beauty, I'm not gorgeous, but it's an improvement. I could maybe even be called "attractive" instead of plain. But again, next to Sarah, nothing.

As if reading my thoughts (or seeing my crestfallen expression), Zora throws her hands into the air. "That's it. Get out of here. I'm so sick of your negativity! You'll bring me down." I've never see her more forceful, and she actually looks _mad_. Probably because I'm not cheered up by all her hard work. "You're on in ten anyway. I have impeccable timing." Zora places her hands on my shoulder blades and pushes me out to door, short black hair quivering with her tension. "Knock 'em dead." The door slams.

I exhale slowly as I head to the stage. I can't believe I actually get the lights tonight. Zora fades fast from my mind as I think of the show ahead. There's no band on the stage. We are using an instrumental recording tonight instead.

Off to the side, near the dressing rooms, I hear Mr. Sorvino ask if I'm there, and I hear Zora respond, "Nah, she's on stage already."

I retreat further into the darkness onstage. Closed curtains. Five minutes. Thank god there aren't any props to worry about, and they've given me a painted backdrop of a dark sea with a small ship sailing off the edge of it. _Just think of it as a theatre performance._ Stage makeup, a set, and even Nina Simone's song has more of a speaking style to it than singing. Okay. We're good. _In, out. In, out. Try not to think about the shoes you're filling._ Doesn't work.

I could be starting at any moment. Mr. Sorvino isn't going to announce me, probably so we would have the same amount of attendees. He said it was to take the customers by surprise. I hope Mr. Sorvino knows he's about to get robbed. When are we going to start already? It's gotta be close… I grab the microphone.

I hear the wacky beginning notes of the song as the curtains slide open.

…!

Okay, I hadn't expected it _that_ soon.

I don't pay attention to the audience numbers. I'm simply telling them a story in the form of a song.

"_You people can watch while I'm scrubbing these floors, and I'm scrubbing the floors while you're gawking." _I put a hand on my hip. "_Maybe once ya tip me and it makes you feel swell in this crummy Southern town, in this crummy old hotel. But you'll never guess to whom you're talkin'."_ During the lull in the music, I smile darkly, knowingly. "_No. You couldn't ever guess to who you're talkin'."_ Everyone leans forward in their seats, unpleasant surprise turning to intrigue. The song is a mystery from the beginning.

"_Then one night, there's a scream in the night. And you'll wonder, 'Who could that have been?' And you see me kinda grinnin' while I'm scrubbin."_ I slow down the last five words, fixing a smug look on my face. "_And you say, 'What's she got to grin?'"_ I raise my index finger. It's all acting. "_I'll tell you…"_

_"There's a ship…"_ Drawing it out, to the sound of creaking and slapping wood. _"The Black Freighter, with a skull on its masthead, will be coming in."_

"_You gentlemen can say, 'Hey gal, finish them floors! Get upstairs! What's wrong with you? Earn your keep here!"_ I move across the stage, scolding, not pausing for a breath. _"You toss me your tips and look out to the ships. But I'm counting your heads as I'm making the beds. 'Cuz there's nobody gonna sleep here, tonight!" _My voice takes on a tone of maniacal glee. _"Nobody's gonna sleep here, honey. Nobody. Nobody!"_ That last word is the first of many creepy, scratchy whispers to come as the music stops again.

I begin to take in details of our crowd under the low lighting. The usual people. And they are all listening. "_Then one night, there's a scream in the night. And you say, 'Who's that kicking up a row?' And ya see me kinda starin' out the winda…"_ A vacant, dreamy look, with a smile. _"And you say, 'What's she got to stare at now?'"_ I raise my eyebrows. "_I'll tell you…"_

"_There's a ship. The Black Freighter, turns around in the harbor, shootin' guns from her bow."_ I lower the microphone.

It all happens in a split second. I look up and let my gaze stray to the group of people on the far right side of the room. My heart stops, my blood boils, and I hope my sudden expression of panic and hate isn't noticed by everyone in the crowd. _How dare they?!_

_Control yourself, for the sake of being onstage._

The mobsters are back. And they brought friends this time. Important friends.

He's here.

They watch me like vultures, smirking at me. Planning something, no doubt. My brain works fast. The only good thing that comes out of this is that I can aim the rest of the song at them, regardless of any consequences. I stare them down, every one of them wearing their fancy suits and fedoras.

"_Now, you gentlemen can wipe off that smile off your face, 'cuz every building in town in a flat one." _My voice grows louder, fueled by insanity and vengeance. _"This whole frickin' place will be down to the ground; only this cheap hotel standing up safe and sound. And you yell, 'Why do they spare that one?'"_ My voice echoes throughout the diner as I reach my loudest and most passionate sentence yet. I raise my chin proudly and look down my nose at the members of the Mob. _"Yes. That's what you say. 'Why do they spare that one?'"_ I radiate smugness.

The patronizing, cocky grins of the mobsters begin to fade into the shadows they are sitting in. They finally get it, the filthy bastards. They know what I'm doing. It's a challenge.

"_All the night through, through the noise and to-do, you wonder, 'Who is that person that lives up there?'" _I walk to the very edge of the stage, head high, and smile dementedly, touching the red ribbon woven into my braid. _"And you see me stepping out in the morning. Looking nice, with a ribbon in my hair."_ Chuckles and murmurs from the audience. They know I'm "Pirate Jenny". I never look away from the Mob.

"_And the ship." _Repeated slapping and creaking of wood. _"The Black Freighter, runs a flag up its masthead, and a cheer rings the air!"_ It ends in a shout as I throw up an exuberant fist, hinting at the darkest part of the song to come.

As I'm feeling the emotions of the lyrics, I'm experiencing strange mixture of anger and confidence. I remain at the edge of the stage, emboldened by my performance. Tonight. Maybe tonight, I'll go down the stairs.

"_By noontime the dock is a-swarmin' with men comin' out from the ghostly freighter."_

Decision made.

I stride down the small steps, overcoming my barrier. Nothing can stop me. No one can. I lock eyes with the Mob members and take meticulous, menacing steps up to their table. I return to my insane, sickly excited shouting volume. "_They move in the shadows where no one can see. And they're chainin' up people! And they're bringin' 'em to me! Askin' me, 'Kill them now, or later?!'"_ I breathe louder, heavily, my chest heaving. I'm close now, and the cowards don't dare move on me, not in front of people.

My bold, angry glare seeks out that one authoritative figure. The sane part of me wonders if I have a death wish, why (in a way) I'm taking on the Mob, trying to provoke them. Revenge and anger blind reason. A loud, hoarse whisper. _"Askin' ME! 'Kill them now, or later?'"_

Finally, I turn away and address the rest of the audience, who have craned their heads around to follow what I'm doing and are now whispering among themselves fearfully, seeing where I'm at and what's happening. It's me, but a darker me, filled to the brim with emotions of rage and hurt.

"_Noon by the clock, and so still at the dock. You can hear a foghorn miles away."_ I draw out the words intentionally, dreamily. Tauntingly, I slink back to the table, even closer than before. I single him out. "_And in that quiet of death, I'll say…"_ A pause. A whisper. I lock gazes with Falcone himself. _"Right now."_ I lean forward, closer to his confident face. His smile never wavers. He knows who I am. _"Right now!"_ It echoes creepily in the silence.

Sensing a threat, one of the henchmen pulls a gun partway out of his suit pocket, I'm tempted to bolt and run for my life, but I stand my ground. Falcone shakes his sleek head and places a large hand on the man's arm. I can't hurt him anyway. Why'd he spare me? I know Falcone can have him blow my brains all over the walls if he wants.

Our faces are separated by only the microphone.

A beat, and then, defeated, I back off two steps, losing my bravado, but still sing in a loud rasp. "_Then they'll pile up the bodies. And I'll say…"_ My face is fury. "_That'll learn ya!" _Three quick jabs of my finger, pointing at them.

I back up, never letting them out of my sight, making my way back up to the stage. Changing once more, my voice is so quiet it can barely be heard, along with my fading confidence. _"And the ship. The Black Freighter, disappears out to sea. And…"_ I'm back on stage, back in my place. _"…on…it…is…me…"_

The curtains close, and my last view of the crowd is Falcone and his men rising for a mocking ovation. My future tonight is dark. If they keep coming back every time I work…I will have to quit this job. All the spunk and courage I'd possessed earlier evaporates. What had I been thinking? Had I honestly thought I could taunt the Mob? They're too powerful, too ruthless, not a small problem, and Falcone owns everything. He's untouchable. I know that. I'll never avenge my dad.

With tears pricking my eyes, even through all the applause, I don't stop to talk to anyone as I stumble into the same back alley from the night before. My second stupid move of the night. I seem to like wandering into unsafe places on my own, with no one around to protect me. Why does this remind me so awfully of last night? Leaning against the cold wall next to a few aluminum trash cans, I will my tears to stop. Right about now is when you want to argue with the idiots who say that crying never solves anything.

A raspy little meow makes me look down, and I see a gray cat with huge yellow eyes weaving around my ankles. Birds, I don't like, but cats…are lovely. They say animals can sense your emotions. I smile and wipe my tears, sliding down the cracking wall to pet the thing. I'm glad to feel better and be temporarily distracted, even if only for a little while. "Hello, kitty," I say softly, thoroughly surprised when the scrawny creature doesn't sabotage my fingers. It purrs and rubs its triangular head against my bare knee.

A small moment of calm in my tossing sea. It doesn't last long.

Simultaneously, the back door flies open with a bang, whooping men rush into the alley, and an arm rams into my stomach. The breath gushes out of me, and I immediately curl into the fetal position. I try to breathe, but my guts heave tightly and my throat dryly sticks together. I actually have the wind knocked out of me!

"Who knew that such a quiet, antisocial girl had the gall to try to walk all over the Mob?" I can't see who's spoken.

The men laugh, and I inwardly curse them all, all of them with their fancy suits and crime and excessive money. The gray feline, I notice, has hissed and streaked off in the other direction down the alley. At least it'll be safe.

Choking back desperate sobs, I sit up against the wall and stretch my arms over my head to stretch my diaphragm out and get my breath back. There are at least ten of these guys. But I don't care; I may die tonight. So I shakily tell them all, "Drop dead."

A swift kick to my ribs crushes me against the wall and rewards me for my insolence. In pain, I dry-heave for the second time. "I will kill you all in the most horrible ways I can think of." An empty threat, but it still draws murmurs, most likely insults back at me.

What are they going to do to me? Rape? Force-feed me drugs? I can't fight back anyway. Too strong, too many.

"Now, kid. Didn't your daddy teach you how to be a lady?" That voice…with the New York (I think) accent. I look up hatefully to see a stocky man in his late forties step forward, flanked by two burly men. His dark auburn hair is just beginning to gray around his hairline and his round face is lined, hardened. Eyes of steel. Falcone.

…

I'm a goner.

"YOU!" I exclaim, pure red-hot murder in my eyes. Falcone smiles pleasantly. "You're the reason my dad's locked up!"

"No, missy. You and your mommy are." His voice, wise and confident, grates on my ears, and I show him my teeth. "Can't we all just be happy with the past?"

I'm silent, still huddled like a coward against the stone wall. But I shake my head viciously.

Falcone crouches down to my eye-level, not caring that I'm hissing and spitting like a rabid cat. He hasn't changed at all in six years, that I can remember. The thick legs of his two henchmen appear in my line of view. Carmine Falcone's face is dead serious. "You've got spunk, kid. I'll give ya that. Your father did, too."

"He still does! He's not gone yet!" I need to learn how to shut up. Ten against one aren't very good odds. I'm trembling violently. No one is going to risk fighting the Mob to save a nobody like me.

Falcone leans closer, and I can smell his tobacco-enriched breath. "Your daddy ain't ever gettin' out of Arkham. If he's still alive" His accent is thick, and even though I know he's right, I shake my head some more, tears streaming. The ground is cold and dirty. I stay down.

"Ya 'know, you were relatively easy to track down," Falcone continues smugly. "You look just like him…" He puts one rough, big, manicured hand under my chin, lifts my face, turns it left, then right. "The small eyes, like two slabs of sleet. Brown hair, strong jaw, wide face. That masculine nose." He prods it, and I resist the temptation of biting of his finger. "A strong resemblance. Identical. But you've got your mother's neck." He runs a finger down it thoughtfully. He's lucky I don't rip up his hand like a wildcat; I feel like I'm being fondled.

One thing I can do, so I take advantage of our proximity and spit in Carmine Falcone's face, signing my own death warrant. I've raised the stakes. Marked it up.

He takes it like a man at first, but then those cold eyes flash with anger and he rolls back on his heels. Then he backhands me. My eyes water, and I'll bet I'm going to have a bruise there, just like Jonathan. "Kid, you've just made a big mistake," he breathes, scolding me with his index finger. "Ya walked on us in public tonight, and now this? You'll be payin' for it later. Not now, but later." Falcone takes a simple handkerchief from his silk jacket pocket and wipes the dribble from his face. "I'm surprised you even remember us. Six years is a long time, missy." He smiles crookedly. "Well, five and a half."

Minutes pass by before I decide it's fine to answer without getting a black eye. "Something like…that…isn't easy to forget." I bite down on my temper. Who knew that someone as silent as I can be so fiery?

The two henchmen grab my upper arms and haul me up. I feel like a prisoner as they keep their grip on me. What's the point of making me stand? I'm still quivering with fear and anger, but at least I have my breath back, even if there's a sore abdomen coming.

Maybe making me stand is a bad idea. Even hunched over, I'm three inches taller than Falcone. I hope he doesn't feel intimidated. 5'11" has its advantages, I guess. The henchmen pin me against the wall. What's in my future? Are they going to kidnap me or kill me or what?

With me restrained, Falcone gets near again. "What I wanna know is this: how did you know it was the Mob? You were twelve."

I close my eyes and will this whole ordeal to be over. "Mom told me." My ribs hurt so much.

Falcone chuckles. "Did Mommy also tell you that your daddy was one of us? A dirty criminal?"

Swallowing, I refrain from rolling my eyes and instead just nod my head. "Yeah. She did."

A knowing smirk as he grips my chin between forefinger and thumb. "Did she mention that she was my girl at one point?"

I feel like I've been walloped with a baseball bat. "That she didn't," I croak weakly. If not for the henchmen holding me up, I would've collapsed. With one last squeeze, Falcone releases my face.

THAT IS THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I'VE EVER DISCOVERED IN MY LIFE!

I think I just threw up in my mouth… Maybe I will for real.

My mom had been involved with the Mob? With…him? That "old geezer" at least fifteen years her senior?

I feel betrayed. I feel like I've been lied to for years and years. I have been, really. Darkness settles in my vision, and I clear my throat, staring numbly at the ground. "I'd like the whole story. What did Dad do to piss you off so badly?" I slump a bit, to show my fire is gone. Part of me wishes I'd taken the time to button up my shirt the rest of the way before heading out. And what's the use of heeled boots if you can't kick anything?

Falcone stays where he is and folds his hands in front of him. "Things were uncomplicated, kid. Jane and I were a happy couple. Could've been hitched someday."

At this, I inwardly shudder, even though I doubt what he says. I could've been his _kid_. "Then Damian, your daddy, joined us." Falcone's clipped voice turns very, very sour, and he scowls. "Illegal immigrant. Changed his name from 'Reilly' to 'Manson', the damn coward." I grit my teeth as Falcone uses the handkerchief to dab spittle from his lips.

"He was desperate for money, a job, a livin', so he joined us." A tired sigh, and I keep my eyes plastered on the wall across from me, on the other side of the alley. Difficult, considering I have to avoid the stares of about eight mobsters to get a clearing. Am I looking for an escape route?

My left leg's falling asleep.

After a lengthy pause, one of the men brings forth an expensive Cuban cigar for Falcone to puff on during storytime. He makes sure to blow the sickly sweet smoke in my tired face. "I shoulda seen right through him. But, hey; it's nice to see young talent blooming, eh? Ya' know?" No, I don't. "Your daddy was a good actor. Excellent for the undercover stuff, ripping off other dealers and all that." My eyes follow his large hand as he waves it around carelessly. The golden glint of a wristwatch in the darkness of this place. "You get that from him, by the way. You sure know how to put on a show, sweetheart." More smoke in my face. I cough; my eyes burn. "I think my boys mighta known what was goin' on, but a week after he came, your mama fell in love with the dark-haired man with the Irish brogue. Right under my nose. Got married and had a kid a year later. You." He raises his whitening eyebrow. " 'Course, I didn't find out for a while. 'Til they disappeared together. At once. I put two and two together."

I snap to attention, and the vice-like grips on my arms tighten considerably. I'm getting the pins-and-needles sensation in my left leg, but I resist stamping that foot on the ground. "So he stole your woman. So what? Seems trivial. You're the boss. You can have anyone you want." Exactly why I'm doubting this tale.

Falcone looks scornful. "'So what?'" he quotes disbelievingly.

"Yeah. So what? What else did he do?"

"He quit. Wanted to turn us all in." Falcone must have a bunch of those cigars waiting for him, because he throws the one he's sucking on onto the ground and smashes it out with one polished shoe, all in anger. "No one crosses the Mob," he seethes. "So, we what we do, is turn him in instead." He chuckles. "Tried to take my money and run, he did."

We've arrived at that memory from six years ago. November 14, 1987. My twelfth birthday. It had been snowing that day, for the first time that year. The earliest snow we've ever had. "It was right dumb move on his part, kid. We show up at your house. Not tough to find out where he'd set up home base. A little trickery, a little chloroform, and we dumped him off anonymously at the cop station that night."

I can remember it all. "He cared more about his squeeze and little brat than he did about his miserable life. We ain't done with your family, missy. Not yet."

There will be hell to come in my and my mother's future. For the past and for my actions tonight. Obviously feeling macho, Falcone whips a rather large switchblade out and points it at me.

He wants to carve me… Please no.

"We knew Damian would use the insanity plea. He was lucky Jeremiah Arkham had the heart to take it. Maybe he knew your daddy's story."

I feel the tale coming to its conclusion. Now the question is: what's going to happen to me?

"But why didn't you just knife him or shoot him?" I wonder, staring at the tool. "Why imprisonment?"

"Bah!" Falcone snorts at me, pocketing the blade. "I thought you were smarter than that, girl! Death would've been too quick for what he did to me. A sane man stuck in an insane place is much more of a bad thing."

"It seems like such a small thing. Having a family, realizing your wrongs, wanting a fresh start…" Everything comes crashing down on me; the experience of losing Dad, Mom's lies, Falcone's revenge and ever-present threat… It's too much. Then it really hits me. "I've been missing a father for _years_ because of you." Filled with passion again, I struggle, restrained, and get the breath knocked out of me again. "I'll never see him again!" And all because of old grudges, of an unwillingness to let go.

Now the Mob is after me.

"Boss, we need ta' go," one of the mobsters behind him insists. "Things ta' do, people ta' see."

"Right you are." Falcone nods, his firm, lined face brightening. "Ya' know, your daddy had a nickname for your mommy. Somethin' Irish. I dunno what it was, but it was probably why they got away with the affair for so long. I never knew who he'd be talkin' about."

I should've been home thirty minutes ago. "You guys won't get away with anything!" I spit at Falcone, but the henchmen drop me to the ground before my words do any damage. My legs can't even support my weight, and I adjust my skirt over my legs before I expose myself. How did no one notice this big disturbance in a back alley?

_Oh right. It's Gotham!_ I remind myself bitterly.

Falcone glares down at me in disgust. He must've really needed to leave or else he'd have someone beat the shit out of me. "Remember this, kid. There ain't no black and white in this world, in this town. It's all gray." He takes a lighter out of his pocket and lights another cigar before plopping the fedora on his superior head. "We'll be seein' ya, kid. Watch your back."

I stare blindly as they leave, trying not to cry again. "You are so dead to me," I whisper after them.

Everything's quiet. So sudden. I feel so alone, and the world is empty now. The pure vacancy of it all presses down on my being. And there I stay numbly on the cold ground for a few minutes longer, wishing I was a normal girl with a normal past and a normal future. I'm lost inside myself, sinking down. Down. Down. Down.

I'll be watching my back for the next thirty years.

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><p><strong>AN: And we're done! Left off on a rather depressing note, didn't we? It'll brighten up soon. Jonathan's in the next chapter, so we can all WOOT WOOT! A small warning here: since most of the rest of the school year involves _The __Crucible, _Falcone stalking (at a distance), and Jonathan/Ames friendship interaction, the timeline will start to move forward at faster pace. I hope. I know some of the singing can make Ames seem Mary Sueish and can be boring...but I ain't taking it out. Deal with it. AND PERSEVERE!**

**Does anyone like the Dresden Dolls? They are a new obssession of mine :D**

**AND one of the lines in here is from _Repo_!, so I lay no claim to it.**

**Question of the Day: What TV character should I dress up as during our Homecoming week? ;)**

**REVIEW AND SHAAAARE!**


	8. And It's My Job to Steal and Rob

**A/N: This is a LONG chapter. 17 or 18 pages on Word because I had an inspired moments and wrote on 16 pages of notebook paper instead of the regular 12. I'm surprised this is updated on time. Further good news includes this being the only story I've ever written to break the 100 page mark! Is now at 113! WHOOOO! Not much to say, other than that.**

****I got TONS of people adding me to faves and alerts, and I thank them all. But most of all I'd like the thank the wonderful people who took the time to review: ****ChocolateShapeshifter, Silential, Arlena4815162342, My Purple Skies, **and **Comidia Del Arte**. **You freaking ROCK! Sorry I didn't respond to you guys by e-mail.****

**In case you're curious, I was just a general shady character during Homecoming week. Black fedora, black trench, black pants, black boots...but I had the face of a doll. Creepy.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Jonathan (sadly), or even _The Crucible_. Damn. I also do not own the idea that Summer is cast as Goody Proctor. All credit goes to **My Purple Skies.

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight: And It's My Job to Steal and Rob…<strong>

_Dig through the ditches,_

_And burn through the witches_

_I slam in the back of my_

_Dragula._

_**~Rob Zombie, Dragula**_

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><p><em><strong>November 14, 1987<strong>_

_I press my nose against the cold glass window, marveling at the gentle snow coating the ground and floating through the air. It's night, but the very tall light post in our yard illuminates the flakes drifting around, tinting them with a golden glow. So early in the year! And on my birthday, too! I squeal excitedly in a newly 12-year-old way, already trying to be a teenager and still maintaining some bubbly childish delight. It's 8:30, and I'm wearing a frilly old white nightgown, a hand-me-down from my mother. It's almost bedtime for me, but I'll watch the snow a little longer. It had been a good day._

_The curtains hiding me from view are pulled apart. I jump guiltily, feeling like I've been caught doing something terrible. I should be in bed now, but I want to watch the snow. There's a chuckle from behind me, and two muscled arms hug me from the back. "Honey-doll, you should be in bed."_

_Dad had lost his funny accent a few years ago, probably so I wouldn't pick it up. "But Daddy," I whine, "it's snowing. Early! Can't I stay up a _little_ later and watch?" I turn around to face the _very _tall, dark-haired man with blue-gray eyes that are more gray than blue. I cross my arms and look at my father solemnly. "It _is_ my birthday, after all. I'm all grown up now."_

_He laughs again and shakes his handsome head. "Not quite, little lady. But I think ten more minutes couldn't hurt anyone. Here; I'll watch it with you." I gasp, annoyed, when Dad hooks his hands under my armpits to lift me up. But I'm standing on the low windowsill now, and I press my nose to the cold glass again, delighted that I can actually see more._

"_Happy Birthday,_ a stóirín_."_

_I break my gaze away from all the glory to ask, "Where's Mom?"_

"_In the living room." Dad taps my nose, and I wrinkle it at him. We have the same one. We look a lot alike, too._

_Watching the gentle snow again, I question, "Will it be like this on Christmas?"_

_Dad doesn't answer but simply kisses my hair. "Shhh. Just watch." And so we do._

_But after five minutes, I see lights shining in our driveway. More than one set. We aren't expecting visitors. Unless… I shriek excitedly. "Daddy, there are people here! Did you plan a surprise party?" Oh, my naïve brain._

_Behind me, Dad has frozen completely. I look back and find his eyes are wide with fear and disbelief. My smile fades. Now, I'm starting to worry. Dad afraid isn't a good thing. He's my dad! "It can't be," he hisses through his teeth. "I thought they were gone. _Cac!"

"_Dad, what's going on?" I'm scared now. This is serious._

_Without a word or phrase other than, "Ames, I love you," he bolts away from the window like a streak of lightning, and I follow stupidly, wanting to know what's happening. Who's outside, and why are they so scary to him? Dad shouldn't be afraid of anything!_

"_Mom! Something's wrong! Dad's scared!" I howl as I follow him, barefooted, out the door and into the cold air. My last view of the house is Mom standing at the open door, her strawberry-blonde hair billowing around her lovely face, while I nearly bite it hustling down our stone front steps. My short 12-year-old legs struggle to keep up with Dad's long strides. The fact that I'm wearing no shoes helps nothing._

_I stop dead halfway down our driveway, ignoring the numb coldness that's biting at my feet to cause me pain. I can see my breath in the frigid air, and snowflakes stick to my eyelashes as I flutter them, wanting to see. They melt into my eyes._

_There are at least four very big, long automobiles parked at the end of our driveway, about a hundred feet away, headlights shining brightly, lighting everything. Allowing me to _see_ everything. Approximately twenty men (or more) are standing in the powdery snow covering our front yard. All of them are wearing strange hats and very nice suits. They look very official, and Dad is storming toward them, shouting words in a language I don't know. His native tongue._

_One of the men shines a flashlight on me, and I take two steps forward, unsure of what to do. "Well, lookey here! It's the brat!" I feel irritated; I'm not a brat!_

_Dad spins around with a look of horror on his rugged face, red from the cold. "Ames! Go back inside!" I freeze, unmoving, as he's bashed over the head with a blunt instrument. Still conscious, he looks up behind me, to my mother hurrying down into the yard. "Jane—" He cuts himself off, corrects himself. "_Sinéad! Tá mo chroí istigh ionat!" _Mom stops and covers her mouth with her hand, eyes tearing up, trembling. He reverts back to English. "Get her out of—"_

_My mom screams, and I watch as one of the men approach my father from the back. A hand, a white cloth, and Dad collapses. I can actually see his eyes roll back in his skull. "Damian!" Mom yells, and runs forward._

_As they drag Dad away through the snow by his arms, I break out of my stupor and dart forward. "No! Daddy!" I sob. Why are they taking him? I'm beginning to feel the pain in my feet and the coldness settling over my small body through the thin nightgown. I run ten feet, twenty feet before being blocked off from my father. Slamming into something, I fall on my rump in the cold snow. Powder sprays into the air, and I feel dampness._

_A man. I'd banged against another man. And one who's clearly the leader of the group. He watches the men haul the limp body of my dad into the back of one of the white automobiles. He peers down at me, sporting a lit cigar, and I spring to my feet, prepared to run farther, but freeze under his gaze. Crème suit, hat, stocky body, auburn hair, a lined face…and cold, cold eyes. They are tough and frightening._

_I swallow. "Please give my daddy back," I ask in a small voice._

_I try to push my way past him, but he places his hand on my head and shoves it back roughly. I fall, landing on my back this time. He crouches over me._

"_Happy Birthday, kiddo," he sneers in an accented, mocking voice._

"_Ames!" My mother's close to us now. I start to cry, but it's not cold enough to freeze the tears on my cheeks. "FALCONE!" she screams. "Stay away from her!" She drops into the snow next to me, hugging me to her. With my mom here, I feel safer. She's wearing her slippers and house robe._

"_Jane, how nice to see you again. You look as beautiful as ever," Falcone says pleasantly. Mom stares at the commotion behind him. He glances back over his shoulder. "Oh. That. Yes, I forgot to mention. Your husband's being turned in."_

_I cry some more, not quite understanding. The tears come because I miss my dad, I'm cold, and my feet hurt. While she glares at this Falcone man and his cigar, Mom works her hands over my small, frozen feet, trying to help them warm. "Falcone, it's been eleven years. Why?" She fears leaving me to go after Dad._

"_Did ya really expect me to just let it go?" Dark. I curl farther inside myself, into Mom's warm embrace. _Daddy, Daddy, Daddy._ I don't understand anything. "Ya broke my heart, Jane." He places a large, smug hand over the nonexistent organ. "Now you'll never see him again. Unless ya go to Arkham. He'll take the insanity plea. So no worries."_

_Droplets of moisture drip down Mom's face and drop onto my hair. She mumbles something that I can't hear._

"_Your brat will haunt ya," Falcone states. "She looks just like him. Pity she'll never be a beauty like you." He laughs, and I whimper, knowing he's right. "It'll be so easy to find her when she's older. The Mob will give both of you hell for years to come."_

"_Hey, boss!" someone shouts from by the cars. "We need ta' go dump this sucker off!" My head snaps up to see._

_At this, Mom claps her hands over both my ears and presses me into her protectively, and now I can't see or hear. But I can feel. Pain, loss, anger. Even at 12-years-old. Happy Birthday to me._

_Two minutes, five minutes, and then Mom whispers, "They're gone, baby. It's all right."_

_I pull away from her, face warm but body cold. "Dad's gone," I sniffle. "Why did those men take him away from us?" And so brutally, too. My voice breaks._

_Mom holds me tightly. "You'll find out when you're older." A pause. "We'll get him back, Ames. I promise." No, we won't. She knows it because she's crying, too. I don't know how we will. I start bawling again. "Shhh." I bury my face back into her chest. _Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

_Even though I'm a little too big to be carried around, Mom picks me up, ready to go back in the house already. Snow floats past that lamppost shining yellow light through the black of night. It's amazing how calm things are, now that they're gone. Like nothing ever happened. "You silly girl. You forgot your shoes," Mom murmurs softly. I can tell she's trying to be strong for me. For both of us._

_I'm numb. Gently, by my ear, Mom opens her mouth, and warm breath tickles it._

"There is no pain; you are receding…_"_

* * *

><p>"Not that I necessarily care at the moment, but I feel obligated to ask. Are you all right?"<p>

I blink away my filmy eyes and sniffle. Not crying, but I'd come awfully darn close. Jonathan sits across from me, glaring but most assuredly bored. For all I know he thinks I'm having some melodramatic teenage girl breakdown. It's fascinating that he didn't throw himself into a trash can when I'd sat across from him with my tray of mush today, considering his attitude last Friday. Maybe he's finally accepted the fact that I'm being persistent in my pursuit to be "friends". Most likely, he's blown off steam over the weekend and is giving up hope of ever trying to avoid me. Jonathan's hands are folded beneath his chin as he observes me in restrained disgust. _You're pathetic,_ is what it's like he's saying.

I should be stronger than this. Especially in front of one of the biggest nerds in school. So what if I have "Daddy issues?" He's got it so much worse. But I avoid the vibrant blue eyes as I retort shakily, "What makes you think something's wrong?"

Jonathan smirks and points at me with a finger, not unlacing his hands. "You're falling apart," he states logically.

Goddamn. "Am not," I pout childishly. He has no idea…and here I'd thought I'd done all my melting last night.

"Apparently, you're thinking about something you can't handle." Now he seems frustrated with my lack of cooperation, my stubbornness. Leave it to Crane to want to get inside people's heads. "I repeat myself: are you all right?"

I know that he doesn't really care about my well-being, about my morale; he just wants what's bugging me, what's making me weak. It enrages me, but I just look at him sadly. "Yeah. I'll tell you a story some time."

We eye each other untrustingly. Even thought it's mid-April, the weather has taken a colder, gloomier turn, forcing us to drag out some winter wear from a few months back. Crane's wearing a baggy maroon sweater and an old pair of khakis that are too long for him. I see that the ugly scratches on his face, neck, and hands are fading, and the bruises are finally turning yellow. He's healing. I myself have bruises on my ribs, face, and stomach. Yeah, the Mob really did a number on me. At least the one on my face is all you can see, and I'd managed to explain it by saying I'd ran into a pole. Don't think anyone believed me, though. Or cared.

Maybe someday I'd tell him about the Mob. Someday, I'd tell him about Paul, too.

Wanting to be left alone, I shut off all conversation to go mope in my own problems. I look to the side to avoid cruel, searching, prodding, poking eyes and unfashionably long, greasy hair. I look away just in time, in fact, to see _Craig_ bolt through the double-doors and into the hallway, pulling a giggling, blonde Summer after him. Gross…

Three guesses what they'll be doing. The first two don't count.

A brief lightbulb reminds me of a certain event that occurred last Friday. I raise my eyebrows and glimpse a short kid who greedily and sneakily follows them. Paul. The perv.

I frown and keep my gaze fixed on the retreating forms. "I have to go."

Without an explanation to Jonathan, I leave, forgetting to grab my lunch tray. I guess he'll have to get it. No. He wouldn't. Crane would let the janitors take care of it. I shudder, knowing he's watching me go. I haven't quite gotten used to his intensity yet.

Fortunately, for Craig and Summer, the hallway is dark and vacant. It's mostly silent, except for my footsteps echoing around and rebounding off the lockers. Peaceful, actually. Better go do it. Sighing, I take a left and find Craig and Summer sucking face against a set of lockers near the teachers' lounge. I grimace in distaste, slightly embarrassed. Humans, our acts, are nasty, if you really think about it. We're…messy.

Taking note of and avoiding Paul (who's creeping in a doorway nearby), I clear my throat loudly, surprised at how much I've changed in the past week. A while ago, I wouldn't have dared confront _anyone,_ let alone Craig. Muscled, weight-lifting football quarterback, handsome, with curly hair the color of honey. I wouldn't have dared.

Craig and Summer spring apart, thinking I'm a teacher. Paul disappears into the doorway completely, but reappears and grins wolfishly when he recognizes me. I ignore him nervously, walking up to the humiliated couple. Craig cracks his knuckles threateningly, and Summer glowers, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Hi," I say meekly. What next?

Summer seethes, "What do you want?" Insert hair-flip here.

I chuckle inwardly; that is _so_ her. "Nothing from you," I tell her, and then turn my gaze toward Craig. A gasp of surprise from the Barbie doll. Good God, nothing like that!

Craig thinks it's hilarious. He doubles over and slaps his hand against his leg, the lettermen jacket straining against his hugely muscled back. "Whoa-ho-ho-ho, ugly! Hold up." Paul laughs along with Craig, like a slimy hyena. I let all the insults bounce off me, one by one. Do they even know Paul's there? "I'm _way_ out of your league, loser." _They aren't worth it. Act like it._ I should come to do what I need to do.

"Don't flatter yourself," I scoff. "Jonathan—you do know who he is, don't you?—needs his keys back. I know you took them." I'm finally admitting to the world that I know Jonathan Crane, even if everyone else had guessed it already.

The silence that hangs in the air is extremely uncomfortable. Then Craig finally speaks, his small brain going into overdrive to understand the situation. "Well, yeah, they're in my locker, but why do you care?"

I don't answer as Summer looks at me with wide eyes. "You abandoned me, Ames. I'm hurt." She places a hand theatrically over her heart, playing the damsel for Craig.

"Oh, please. You couldn't have cared less," I snap. "I don't need people like you." I'm not sure if random bouts of courage are a good thing yet. I lean back against the locker, keeping an eye on Paul at the edge of my peripheral vision.

"Yeah, _whatever._" Summer pouts and throws her hands in the air. "It would've been better if you'd gone for someone _cool,_ Ames! But why _Crane_?"

Craig wraps an arm around her tiny waist, and they both stand in front of me, threateningly. I'm taller than Summer, but Craig towers over my 5'11" by at least six inches. Is this how Jonathan feels around me? "Went for the _geek_, huh? For good, skinny old _Scarecrow?"_ I feel a brief pang of defiance. No one's called him that (at least to his face aloud) since freshman year. And they're _still_ bullying him? "Now, I don't like it when my girl gets hurt. You should pay." More knuckle-cracking.

"I just want his keys back," I mumble quietly, shrinking against the locker.

Craig leans over me, bringing a smug Summer with him. "Why are you helping him, Ames? Hmmm?" Slowly, so slowly, Craig pauses, thinks, and smiles viciously, disbelievingly. Uh oh. Summer, without a doubt, is thinking something very similar. "Unless…no way." He starts his booming laughter again, as if he's privy to some secret joke. "I can't believe he's…you're…" More snickering, and Summer starts up, too.

Okay, what's going on? I scowl at both of them. "Hey, what's the joke?" I _do not_ want to be associated with these two any longer.

Craig wipes his eyes with mirthful fingers. "Here, ugly. I'll make you a deal. You'll get the keys if you do one thing." He speaks the last sentence menacingly, slowly.

I'm so going to regret this. "What?"

"Say you're fucking Crane."

Yep, there it is.

My mouth hits the floor. "WHAT?" I voice aloud. How'd they draw _that_ crude conclusion? Crane and I are nothing more than acquaintances, neighbors. I'm kinda trying for friendship, but how do people get these _gross_ ideas from less than a week of neutral, cold encounters? Ew. Ew. Ew.

Summer giggles, and Craig responds to my reaction. "Hey. You're doing it; why not just admit it? Give it up, loser." I blush crimson scarlet.

_Because it's not true!_ I want to scream. "Um…" is all I end up saying.

"You know, you'd be doing him a favor. You'll be the only lay he'll ever have in his life. It's good if people know about it." Not true, not true. For the guy, maybe. But never for the girl. _We_ are the ones who get called the sluts. I want to poke out both of Craig's baby-doll eyes. I'd be ruining Jonathan's reputation. He would not like it. I think I'm more concerned about _my _reputation, to be honest. I shouldn't care what _they_ think or how _they_ feel, but…no. There's that need to belong again…hadn't I gotten rid of it?

No. I'm sorry, Jonathan. But I won't call myself a whore. I'm not that loyal to you yet. Live without your damn keys for another day.

I dry-swallow, unable to stop the guilt and bad feelings welling up inside me. Paul stares greedily. "No. I won't," I whisper softly, hanging my head. _Goddamn it, Ames. Goddamn it._

All that happens is that Summer and Craig stroll away, hand in hand and laughing at the world while Paul secretly follows. I'm such a failure. I bang my head against the locker twice, furious with myself. It's too late, but really, how long would that rumor have lasted? A week, maybe two. "You loser," I chastise myself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid…"

I frown, trying to remember an earlier detail. "Stupid…"

_BAM!_ It hits me. I straighten up from my slump and smile for the first time that day. Dumber-than-a-post Craig had let slip one tiny thing. His locker. Jonathan's keys are in his locker. And if he's like any other lazy jock (opposite terms, I know), the lock's probably jammed so he won't have to remember his combination.

In fact, Craig's locker is at the end of _this _hallway, if I recall correctly. Don't ask me how or why I know; I just do. Scanning the length of the hallway, I jog down it. As a junior, I'd probably be quite interrogated if I'm discovered breaking into the locker of a senior.

"Okay…" I'm at the end of the hall and face by two different lockers. A white one and a blue one. Only…I can't remember which is his. "Aaargh!" I groan. Believe me, I know I'm making a big deal out of nothing. How much time is left in the lunch period anyway? Huh. I guess the halls can become flooded with students at any moment now.

I try the blue locker first. As Craig is a boy, blue just seems likely. When I try to push up the handle, it stops dead with a _click!_ Damn. I still can't believe I'm "breaking" into a locker! If this white one here doesn't work…well, Jonathan's pretty much screwed for getting back his keys.

"Please work, please work, please work, please work," I mutter prayerfully, left eye twitching. I hunch over as I hear the double-doors from far down another section of the hall swing open, and the sounds of chattering and clambering fill the once-quiet air. Oh god. Now I need to rush. I put my index finger under the handle of the white locker, push up, and am positively _ecstatic_ when it clinks open. This is it!

Nasty… This had got to be Craig's locker. The lock is jammed with a pen cap, posters of hot Latino babes and a national football team stick inside the door, and the rest of it smells funky and is a mess. I can't believe what I have to _dig _through in order to find them… Why am I doing this again? I feel like a freaking _criminal._

And there, finally, under a well-worn, well-read copy of _Hustler_ _Magazine,_ is a set of keys. I pluck them out of the pigsty and slam the door and all the inappropriateness out of sight, and bustle back up the hallway, to _my_ locker, so I can grab books for Home Ec. and American History. On the way, I observe the keys, actually interested.

There are only two keys, for house and car, I'm assuming, hanging on a simple, antique ring with a style all its own. But that isn't what fascinates me the most, and it certainly isn't the thing that causes me to stop still in the middle of a large number of people.

I never thought someone like Jonathan would have a _keychain_ of all things, but this one is just so…fitting. A miniature flash card, about the size of a cracker, except a little smaller. My eyes trace over the tiny details of twin black splotches on each half of the white square. And then it all makes sense. The little keychain is the Rorschach inkblot test. You know, the most common one that's supposed to look like a butterfly? With a jolt of surprise, I actually find that I'm grinning like a goon over such a silly little thing.

"Cool," I whisper, dangling it before me. But it's just…perfect for Jonathan. Nothing can be more suitable, considering his obsession with the human brain and all. Mind over matter and that stuff. It's obvious from his classes and attitude and the heavy psychology books always with him that he enjoys it. As I stroll to the Home Ec. room, I try to see the so-called "butterfly" in the blots, but to me, it's the curling smoke from Falcone's cigar, or the bird poo on my truck window, or even the chicken nugget-vomit from a few days ago. I wonder what it says about me. Would Jonathan be able to tell me? (Not that I want to share.) I throw the keys in my school bag.

All through Home Ec. and while nearly sowing my finger twice when finishing up my fleece jacket, these sorts of questions occupy my head. Enough, so that when the bell rings for fifth class, I nearly forget that we start _The Crucible_ in History today…

Hell yeah.

Well, I've gone from depressed to defiant to defeated to delirious with happiness, all within the past few hours.

In American History, I take a place next to Jonathan again, giddy and uncharacteristically happy. I note his bag sitting near a wet patch of carpet on the floor. Jonathan scrutinizes me through his round glasses, hoping that the reason for my mood change is written all over my face. He doesn't know about the keys, obviously, but he probably can't understand why I'd be excited about reading a play in class. His own copy is resting on his desk, untouched.

Summer isn't happy anymore; she and Destiny both glare at me before Mr. Spade walks in as the bell rings. He goes up to the center of the room, looks at us seriously, and says, "Well, guys. You know what's going on today."

I bounce up and down in my seat, grinning like a fool. Oh, yes. I do. We start off, as usual, by watching an early morning news segment from that morning. Crime, murders, robberies, blah-blah-blah. The usual.

When it's finished, Mr. Spade turns the lights back on and walks by where Crane and I are sitting. "Now, I'm going to ask everyone to—" He breaks off, spicy brown eyes falling on the water bottle spill near Jonathan's desk. Mr. Spade walks up to me Jonathan and looks him straight in the eyes. "Did you piddle?" he asks solemnly.

I sputter with laughter as Jonathan turns bright red under his long hair and stiffly shakes his head. Oh, today is a good day!

Even though Mr. Spade is only kidding with him, Jonathan isn't the type for joking around. He glares at the teacher's feet while he commands, "As I was saying before, circle up your desks. And not in the shape of an oval, please." Jonathan and I end up next to each other once more. He ignores me, but I make sure his book bag stays near my feet. I'll need it later. Crane's seriously acting like Doomsday is in five minutes or something. His attitude sucks.

"Get over it," I whisper seriously.

A light snort is my only response. Well, fine then! My fingers tremble eagerly and excitedly when Mr. Spade tells us to open our books to page _vii_, which turns out to be an introduction. Feeling suspicious, I flip forward a bit, only to find that the intro is six pages long. I groan, wanting so badly to get to the actual play. Not that I mind the extra reading; I'd just been, well, looking forward to things a bit much. At least Jonathan seems relieved to put it off for a bit.

Mr. Spade, the trooper that he is, volunteers to read all six pages aloud. The rest of us settle back to either fall asleep or to hear what it says. "'The Crucible is that rarity in the American theatre, a play which seems finer and more alive today than when it was first produced, in this case 1953.'" I listen to his animated voice, reading along in addition. It's obvious he's done this for two years, the same thing each semester. And he still gets some enjoyment out of it.

This takes up about half of our class time, mainly because Mr. Spade keeps stopping to explain things. A few of the students are nodding off, and I have the unexplainable drive to chuck my pink eraser at them. Mr. Spade does it for me, once he's done reading.

He takes one from the chalkboard while a few of us, the alert students, watch. Mr. Spade throws it expertly, baseball-pitcher style, at Luke Winters' drooping head. He starts awake with a shout of, "My mom does NOT steal people's shoes!" We snicker. Even Jonathan cracks a rare smile. But then it disappears without a trace, almost as if I've never seen it. Oh Crane, you're just as human as the rest of us.

Just when we get to the actual Act One, when I actually think we'll start, we go through the list of twenty-one characters, labeling who they are. The next five pages are an overture, but Mr. Spade has mercy on us and skips it. The only thing he does is read the vital stage directions. Beside me, Jonathan twitches in barely concealed annoyance. Like me (in a way), maybe he just wants to get on with it, or in his case, get it out of the way. What a party pooper.

The first moment is temporarily between Reverend Paris and Tituba. Annie Bates, who's cast as Tituba, reads, "'My Betty be hearty soon?'" Whoa. She actually does a decent job, working in a Jamaican accent and not sounding as if she's reading off paper. Promising.

Luke Winters, as Reverend Paris, says, "'Out of here.'" It's supposed to be an exclamation, but it sounds flat and toneless coming from him. I clench my fists and swallow down my annoyance.

Mr. Spade chuckles. "Don't sound so excited," he remarks amusedly.

Annie continues. "'My Betty not goin' die…'"

Luke "yells" at her again before "breaking down" into "sobs." Pathetic. So what if I'm being harsh?

A little while later, Mr. Spade reads the stage directions again. "'He is bending to kneel again when his niece, Abigail Williams, seventeen, enters—a strikingly beautiful girl, an orphan, with an endless capacity for dissembling. Now she is all worry and apprehension and propriety.'" At the description of my character, I get a few scoffs and dirty looks from other females in the room.

I ignore them and come in with, "'Uncle? Susanna Walcott's here from Doctor Griggs.'" Believe it or not, I'm completely in character. I catch Mr. Spade nodding his head in approval. Jonathan just ogles at me doubtfully.

Luke and I dismiss Susanna Walcott before entering into a heated (at least from one side) discussion about being witched and Tituba and dancing naked in the woods and me defending myself hotly against Goody Proctor (Summer scowls at the insults I get to throw at her) and telling lies about her that I see as true.

Mrs. Putnam comes and goes before Mr. Spade reads a short(er) intro about Thomas Putnam. Surprisingly, we're moving through this all quite steadily. More arguing and then Destiny Holder is introduced as Mercy Lewis, a "fat, sly, merciless girl of eighteen." What a humbling experience for her.

In the play at this point, the adults leave, and the girls and I are left alone. I try to persuade Betty to wake up. "'Betty? Now stop this! Betty! Sit up now!'" Destiny woodenly suggests beating her, rolling her eyes at my general enthusiasm. I move around in my seat. Most of the class looks bored to death, even as the scene takes a darker turn when we girls argue amongst ourselves about how to present the situation and keep certain things secret.

I read passionately, "'Betty? Now, Betty, dear, wake up now. It's Abigail.'" No response. "'I'll beat you, Betty!'" I snarl. A whimper. "'My, you seem improving. I talked to your Papa and I told him everything. So there's nothing to—'"

Connie Knapp also manages to scare the shit out of me as Betty Paris. "'I want my mama!'" We read our tiff, and my increasing violence and will to be controlling are revealed.

Mary Warren starts freaking out, and I snap, "'I say shut it, Mary Warren!'"

Finally, John Proctor is introduced. Now, it's on. Jonathan rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh as I imitate Abigail's position in the play and use it on him in real life, just to irk him. So I stare at his face, "absorbing his presence, wide-eyed." I detect an eye roll.

Marry Warren's line. "'Oh! I'm just going home, Mr. Proctor.'"

Jonathan speaks for the first time. "'Be you foolish, Mary Warren? Be you deaf? I forbid you leave the house, did I not? Why shall I pay you? I am looking for you more often than my cows.'" I guess he doesn't surprise. Jonathan reads well and doesn't stumble over words, but he sounds so…dead. Ugh! He tonelessly dismisses Mary Warren.

I'm going to give this my all. Maybe I can animate (and annoy him) a little. So I drill holes into Crane's head with my eyes and coo, "'Gad! I'd almost forgot how strong you are, John Proctor!'"

Jonathan raises an eyebrow and pushes his glasses up his nose before sending me a look. "'What's this mischief here?'" Ah. He sounds wary. Better.

I laugh. "'Oh, she's only gone silly somehow.'" I stare Crane down again.

He returns it, sensing a challenge. I think he wants to best me. Fat chance. "'The wood past my house is a pilgrimage to Salem all morning. The town's mumbling witchcraft.'"

"'Oh posh!'" I trill. My voice becomes…darker. Sultry. "'We were dancin' in the woods last night, and my uncle leaped in on us. She took fright, is all.'"

I crack up inside as Jonathan frowns disapprovingly at his next line. "'Ah, you're wicked yet, aren't ye!'" I gasp with excitement, eliciting giggles from the class, but hey; it's what the stage directions say to do. "'You'll be clapped in the stocks before you're twenty.'" Is it just me, or does Jonathan's voice take on a slight scolding edge?

I whine, "'Give me a word, John. A soft word.'" Remarkably, the class is alert now that scandal and lust are introduced.

Jonathan clears his throat awkwardly, attempting to throw on a cool shield. "'No, no, Abby. That's done with.'"

"'You come five mile to see a silly girl fly? I know you better,'" I taunt, flirting with John Proctor, not Crane. Crane _is_ John Proctor to me; that's how into it I get. I actually believe all this is happening: witchcraft, the affair, _everything!_

"'I come to see what mischief your uncle's brewin' now. Put it out of mind, Abby,'" he reads sternly. Finally, _finally,_ he loses his impassiveness.

Mr. Spade is smiling at the two of us.

"'John—I am waitin' for you every night,'" I murmur suggestively.

Sensing how realistic I'm getting, Jonathan death-glares at me with his crystal eyes. "'Abby, I never gave you hope to wait for me.'"

I begin to sound indignant as everyone watches our lover's spat. "'I have something better than hope, I think!'" I insist.

A more critical turn from Crane. He's really good at the whole cold thing. "'Abby, you'll put it out of mind. I'll not be comin' for you more.'"

Quietly. "'You're surely sportin' with me.'"

"'You know me better.'"

I lean forward and peek at Jonathan out of the corner of my eye, before purring, "'I know how you clutched my back behind your house and sweated like a stallion whenever I come near!'" Mr. Spade is forced to stop us and shush the students who'd been laughing openly. Perverts. "'Or did I dream that? It's she put me out, you cannot pretend it were you. I saw your face when she put me out, and you loved me then and you do now!'" I'm almost in tears by the end of this speech. Someone I can't see quietly calls me a drama queen.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Jonathan turns slightly pink at my words, returning to his emotionless tone from before. I think I've scared him. "'Abby, that's a wild thing to say—'"

"'A wild thing may say wild things,'" I interrupt, on time. "'But not so wild, I think. I have seen you since she put me out; I have seen you nights.'"

Jonathan insists nervously, "'I have hardly stepped off my farm this seven-month.'"

I gaze at John Proctor out of the edge of my vision again, tapping my fingers against my desk. "'I have a sense for heat, John, and yours has drawn me to my window, and I have seen you looking up, burning in your loneliness. Do you tell me you've never looked up at my window?'"

"'I may have looked up,'" Jonathan reads softly, but grudgingly agreeing.

I soften and mope about how I dream for and about him, all the while trying to remember that _Jonathan Crane_ is sitting next to me, and not John Proctor, so I can't get too crazy here. My speech results in him calling me "'Child,'" and me angrily interrupting with, "'How do you call me child?'"

"It's true; he's laid her after all," I hear Summer mutter to her friends. What a witch. So she's going to spread it anyway.

Mr. Spade shushes her and gives her a warning look.

Wooden once more, Jonathan recites, "'Abby, I may think of you softly from time to time. But I will cut off my hand before I'll ever reach for you again. Wipe it out of mind. We never touched, Abby.'" He's better when he reprimands someone.

"'Aye, but we did.'" I breathe turning to the side and gazing at Jonathan, just to make him uncomfortable. See how acting makes me a different person?

"'Aye, but we did not,'" Jonathan warns, shaking his head at me in a "Stop it!" gesture.

I snort bitterly and look away from his feminine face. "'Oh, I marvel how such a strong man may let such a sickly wife be—'"

He doesn't defend Summer very well. Dead, he drones, "'You'll speak nothing of Elizabeth.'" No exclamation there.

And now I get to hurl insults at Summer again! I should _not_ be enjoying this as much as I am. "'She is blackening my name in the village! She is telling lies about me!'" I whine, making Abigail Williams an easily hated character. "'She is a cold, sniveling woman, and you bend to her!'" I seethe. "'Let her turn you like a—'"

Jonathan doesn't even raise his voice as he asks, "'Do you look for a whippin'?'" Well, we had been doing well. I think I put him off. I guess not everyone's as into this as I am.

I cross my legs and begin my next section tearfully with, "'I look for John Proctor that took me from my sleep and put knowledge in my heart!'" I go on and on about how John Proctor opened my eyes. Man, this girl is _obsessed_ with him! How ridiculous. Abby needs to get over it. I end with, "'You loved me, John Proctor, and whatever sin it is, you love me yet!'" Whew! At least that's over. Now Jonathan can stop hating me for the day. Speaking of which, class is seven minutes from ending. "'John, pity me, pity me!'" I yell.

Connie Knapp lets forth a whine like the script orders (because a psalm is being read), allowing me to come in once more with, "'Betty?'" I desperately call out her name a few more times.

Jonathan attempts to give a bit more (weakly) and ends his part. "'What's she doing? Girl, what ails you? Stop that wailing!'"

And right there, before the adults come rushing back in, is when Mr. Spade stops us for the day. He claps twice. "Well done, everyone. Now set everything back up in a state of order, please." A few brave (eh, slutty) girls walk up to Mr. Spade to chat about the play, Summer and Destiny included.

As everyone attempts to get their desks back into straight rows, I discretely take out Jonathan's keys and hide them up my sleeve. Without a doubt, I probably confuse him when I purposely knock his book off his desk as a distraction. He thinks I'm trying to be a bully now, so I get a bone-withering stare when he bends over the other side of the desk and reaches for it with one scrawny arm.

_Now! He's not looking! _my mind bawls.

The backpack's at my feet, unzipped only slightly but enough. I drop the keys into it, and they land amongst other school supplies with a cheery _clink!_ I let my breath go and smile. Mission accomplished. Jonathan can properly drive home today.

I grab my desk and haul it back into the appropriate row and also watch as Jonathan does the same, his thin frame trembling from the effort of dragging his desk back in place, in the space ahead of mine. Mr. Spade yells instructions over the clamor of students.

The bell for the end of the day sounds off, and I actually feel like cheering, the memories of Falcone and last night slowly fading, but not forgotten. Jonathan swings his tattered bag onto his shoulders and shoots me a suspicious look as he leaves. I avoid those judging eyes and wait until he's out of the room before leaving, too.

It's obvious Jonathan's suspicious about something, but why this sudden bout of nervousness that I have?

I gulp. Just as long as Craig doesn't notice anything… _Pffft._ Good luck me.

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><p><strong>AN: I noticed a slight lacking of reviews last chapter. I understand if you are all busy, but are you beginning to lose interest in the story? Please review to answer the Question of the Day and let me know what you're thinking.**

**This'll be a long author's note. First of all, HOLY CRAP IT WAS MY FIRST DROPPED F-BOMB IN THIS STORY! Idiotic Craig had to ruin it.**

**Pronunciatons: _"A stóirín"_ (ah store-een) is the Irish Gaelic phrase for "_my little darling_."  
><em>"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat" (<em>taw muh khree ISS-tee UN-ut) translates to "_m__y heart is within you_" in Irish Gaelic. "_Sinéad"_ (shin-ADE) is the Irish Gaelic form of Jane.  
>"<em>Cac<em>" (kak) translates to "Shit!" in Irish Gaelic. Damian shouldn't have used that language around his young daughter, but in his current situation, it's excused.**

**Question of the Day: Who do you picture Ames looking like? You can do the younger self, but I'd love to see what you have in mind for her older self, too. I just want to know what you guys picture.**

**Next chapter, Ames gets a small surprise...**


	9. A Sense of Questioning

**A/N: Just a warning. Some parts of this is pretty jerky. I don't now. It was fun to write, but nothing really seemed to flow. AND there's a lot of questions and a lot of contemplating ahead.**

**Ok, I know that I responded to some of you and said that I'd give you a full character description of Ames. And I will. Ames is 5'11", which isn't gigantic. Think of her as about as tall as Nicole Kidman. She's done growing, but Jonathan's not. Though he will never be as tall as her. Ames has big feet, slim calves, curvy thighs, a flat butt, a bit of a tummy, small chest and upper torso, broad shoulders, and thick upper arms. A very awkward body shape.**

**As for facial appearances, that was tricky. But thanks so much for **LittleMissAngel.** She suggested to me that the high school ****Ames**** looks like a darker haired Mae Whitman, and her older self looks like Jaimie Alexander, the actress from _Thor _(fan-freaking-tastic film). AND SHE NAILED IT! WHAT A LIFESAVER! I rented _Thor _over the weekend, watched it, and decided Jaimie Alexander was PERFECT for the older ****Ames****! But imagine both of those with steel gray/blue eyes. Gosh, I was lost for a long time. If I have time, I'll put photo comparison links up on my profile so you wonderful people can look at them**

**Thanks ****to **ChocolateShapeshifter, Silential, Zetsubel, Starrycat05, Comidia Del Arte, My Purple Skies, Arlena4815162342, LittleMissAngel, **and** thexdarkestxnightsx **for ****the ****reviews!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything! So quiet down. Chris Issak's "_Wicked __Games"_ does not belong to me.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine: A Sense of Questioning<strong>

_So many directions,_

_I don't know which way to go._

_I'm so busy doing nothing;_

_I got nothing to show._

_**~Middle Class Rut, New Low**_

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><p>We all know that happiness never lasts long, and mine evaporates the second I walk in the door of our house. Mom is home early today, sitting at our dining room table doing paperwork. I'd been cold to her yesterday, and I turn to ice after one glance in her direction. It all comes rushing back: her secrets, her lies…not really lies, I guess, but did she really think she could hide it forever? What she and Falcone had been? She's hidden so much from me, and I can't help but feel angry.<p>

Mom hears the door slam. She glances up and smiles at me warmly. "Hey, honey. How was school?" Darn it. Why does she need to make it so _hard_ to be mad? _Think of Falcone._ There it is.

Automatically, my eyes narrow, and my fingers tighten around the strap of the backpack hanging off my shoulder. Mom looks nervous and a little hurt as she senses my sudden hostility. She knows how I look when I'm feeling angry; it's the way I look right now. Rigid, head held high, jaw clenched, and chin stuck out defiantly.

I shut her out. "I'm going to my room." She has no idea why I'm in such a bad mood, and so I avoid her wounded expression to keep from feeling guilty about it. She deserves this. Her smile vanishes.

I can't stop myself. As I stride stiffly past the table, I pull my truck keys from my jeans' pocket and toss them onto the wood, the metal slapping against it loudly. They land near her graceful hands, nearly taking off her left ring finger, the one with the tiny diamond wedding band on it. Dad's ring to her. She still wears it. In this random process, Mom jumps.

"Ames?"

_Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom._ I fly up the stairs to get away from her. Tightly coiled, I bolt into my room like a bull and slam my door shut on the world. Then, like any normal teenager, I throw myself onto my bed and burrow into the covers, but this time, I manage to hold back self-righteous tears. Flopping onto my side, I huddle in the blankets as I stare out the window. It's only about 4:30 or so, but it may as well be night. All color has been leached from the sky, leaving it a depressing shade of dark gray to match my mood. There's just nothing out there; not even the crows. For now.

Jonathan's probably home by now, but I lack the will to rise up and check if his car's in the driveway. I wonder what his reaction to getting his keys back was. Would he know who did it?

I don't even feel like doing homework. I don't even feel like turning on my radio. My eyes continue to stare listlessly out into grayness, the comforter making my body warm. Too warm.

Dang I need some peach tea. Chocolate milk would be even better.

Leaving the parking lot today, I'd tried to get out of there as fast as I could, ignoring my own rule about waiting around. Instead of facing Jonathan, I'd decided to stay away from him. After the whole _Crucible_ experience, maybe it's best if I distance myself. Too much for him or something.

Jonathan… Ok, I'll admit it to myself. I worry about him. His home life is crueler than can be, and apart from me (in my opinion), anyone at school will either whisper about or steer clear of him. His intelligence intimidates us, his intensity creeps us out, his coldness keeps us away. So as human beings, we did with Crane what human beings do with anything the slightest bit different. We cast him out.

Looking back on middle school now, I wish I'd never participated. I would've been his "friend" earlier, defended him, instead of worrying over trivial things like popularity. None of that matters ten years from now.

Will Crane really try to leave that house when he turns eighteen? I guess we'll see how all this plays out. What do I feel toward Jonathan, anyway?

Pity, sympathy, most definitely. Admiration, maybe a little. His smarts and interest in the human mind are different from anything normal at our age. Intrigue? Yes. How does he deal with life? How does he stay sane through all of it?

I flip over onto my back and think deeper, wandering into some uncharted territory. What Craig had said. Do they really think the only reason a girl would be paying attention to him is because she wanted a lay? I snort, throwing off covers, but I remain lying down. This thinking is doing nothing to help my angsty mood. I dare ask myself that one question.

Attraction? Am I in any way attracted to Jonathan Crane?

_No,_ I discover with relief. No self-denial here. No attraction. I shiver. He's fun to irritate, his voice is nice, his brain is interesting, but his attitude and personality? There's nothing good there. He's high-and-mighty, smug, selfish, and has nothing to do with the rest of the outside world. He really thinks he's too good for all of us, that he's above all of us.

He's also unconcerned with the silly things of high school life. He's focused and knows where he is and where he'll go. So maybe he _is_ better_._ Jonathan stands opposition from all sides, from the viciousness of his grandmother to adults to kids his own age. And he takes it all like a man.

I close my eyes before opening them again.

And there, out of absolutely nowhere, emerges a new feeling. Respect.

Personality flaws and ego issues aside, I respect Jonathan Crane.

Holy crud. Yay for progressive thinking. I find myself hating him a little less and less, but thanks to Mom and Falcone, I'm still depressed.

_Mom and Falcone…_ My sour mood worsens, and I lie in that bed or pace around the room until 8 o'clock. No doubt Mom's worrying her head off about me. Multiple times she comes up to knock timidly on the door, only to be ignored by her agitated daughter. The only thing pounding in my heart now is revenge. I need to avenge my father. But how? As times passes, the sky outside darkens to near blackness.

I walk over to the window. And stare at the crows now circling in the sky. If it weren't for that damned light in our yard, I wouldn't be able to see them. I shudder. If my window was open, the raucous cawing would be shredding my ears. Will I ever get rid of my fear of birds? My eyes fall past the filthy things and dart across the cornfield to the Cranes' house. I lean forward. The lights are on, but everything's silent. Not the creepy silent that worried me a few nights ago. A nice silent. Peaceful silent.

_Rap-rap-rap-rap._ Being so darned focused on the house, I'm startled by the sudden knocking. It causes my hand to slip off the windowsill, me to lurch forward, and my heart to skip a few beats. The knocking continues. "Jesus Christ," I whisper darkly.

"Ames? Please let me in. I think you need to talk to me," Mom suggests timidly through the door.

I whirl around, jump on and off my bed, only to land near the door and unlock it. Fine. Just this once. Maybe she'll leave me alone, and then, I'll have peace. I silently retreat into the bed again and pull the covers over myself, my back to the door as it opens. I stay still, almost as if I'm dead. Having a mixture of anger and numbness coursing through your veins is a funny feeling, and I feel sleepy. It's not even that late.

Under my blankets, warm, bundled, and safe, I feel a heavy pressure at my back. Mom's at my level, trying to relate and have a heart to heart talk. I remain rigid on my side, staring through my window up at the crows. My eyes follow them in circles. I'm gonna end up ignoring her, I just know it.

"Ames, talk to me."

Or not. Her voice is full of worry, fear, love, and tenderness. Full of everything a mother's voice should be. This woman gave _birth_ to me, and because of my reluctance and refusal to let of the past, of _her_ past, I'm treating her like a pile of crap. Inwardly, my stubborn barrier breaks, and it all comes spilling out. But I'm surprisingly quiet and calm about it.

"You never told me about Falcone…" My voice is muffled by my pillow.

I hear a sigh as Mom sits up beside me. Her weight leaves the bed. "Such a smart girl. Should've known you'd figure it out eventually," she says quietly. She might be walking around the room now.

"Falcone told me himself." My voice remains lifeless, unemotional, cracking slightly. "At work."

"Oh my god," Mom breathes. A quick patter of footsteps and suddenly Mom is crouching down beside my half of the bed, staring at me with her deep green eyes and her brow furrowed in worry. Her mouth is tight with anger. "Ames, did they hurt you?"

Silence again, but then I lie, "No." I attempt to roll onto my right side, but I'm stopped by her arm. Shit. The left side of my face. With a soft hand, she turns my head back toward her.

Mom's eyes widen. "That bruise… I'll kill him," she growls. Her sudden hostility surprises me. The only time I've ever seen her this angry was on that night almost six years ago.

"You can't stop him." Now I've given up. "No one can."

Mom closes and opens her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I expect he told you everything you needed to know." I nod, my cheek rubbing against the pillow. Her voice trembles as she tries to explain. "Honey, we…that…" She can't speak any more.

Oh dear god. Don't cry.

Anger and animosity are most curiously gone, so I assure her, "You don't have to explain the past. I don't want to know details."

A weak laugh. "I just want to say that I didn't hide it from you because I didn't trust you. I thought you were too young to understand." And here comes the most cliché excuse in the book. "I though it was for the best."

It won't matter how many times I say I forgive her, how many times I leave the past behind, or how many times she smiles and says everything will be all right. There's something between us now. A trust issue, a barrier or wall that hadn't existed before. We've never been exceptionally close, but something has definitely changed. There's a distance there. She knows it.

Somehow, someday, I'm going to regret it.

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><p>Unfortunately, in the morning, Mom goes in to work early, so she's up and around while I get ready for school. There are a few awkward exchanges of words between us, but nothing more. The only thing Mom offers me when I walk out the door is a fragile smile, which I return with a simple nod.<p>

I do some more heavy thinking on the way to school. Not as heavy as yesterday's but serious nonetheless. Two main things: a song to do for the spring concert and if I'm going to keep my job as a performer at Wonderland. Well, with the way things are heading in my current situation, I probably won't keep it. It tears me apart, but I also value safety. And at work, I'd have to face them all the time. Is it really worth it?

I turn up my radio to drown out my thoughts. As for a spring concert solo, I have no idea.

It's at a stoplight, however, that a certain song comes on and catches my attention. It's gentle and relaxing, with the very easy strumming of a guitar. And the lyrics. I strain to hear the first words.

"_The world was on fire; no one could save me but you. Strange what desire will make foolish people do. I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you. And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you."_ I lean forward, close my eyes, and grin. This is it. The song.

I miss the stoplight change from red to green. It's the morning rush, so the honking of the impatient car behind me convinces me to get going. I slam on the gas and almost miss the next words of the song. "_No, I don't want to fall in love…"_ Beautiful. Even if I do quit my job, maybe I can still convince the band to play behind me for this one. It needs more of a rock edge. The strumming is nice, but it's just not…me. Four minutes later, and (thank the lord), they announce the song and artist when the music fades. I have it. There goes one thing off my list.

Since yesterday, I notice as I walk into school, nothing has changed that much, unless you count girls from the popular crowd and guys from the varsity football team staring me down everywhere I go. In every class, Summer and her group or someone from her group drills holes into my skull with evil stares. I sigh to myself during Art class, sinking down in my seat and covering my head with my arms for protection. Don't they ever quit?

"Floozy," I hear one of them whisper. Looks like the rumors will be going around after all. _I'm sorry, Jonathan._ I hope to God he hasn't heard anything yet. How embarrassing; we've both been made into targets.

Naomi, who's been assigned a seat next to me, shoots me a sympathetic look instead of a murderous one. If our school gets held captive, and I have to come to the rescue, she's the one I'm saving first. Jonathan and Mr. Spade will be second because Naomi's been nothing but nice. So far.

_Ding-dong. Ding-dong._ The annoying bell rings and releases us for third class. Spanish. Good. Except now I have to deal with Paul and his remarks. Who knows what he's come up with based on what he heard yesterday?

I walk to the set of lockers located close to the double-doors that lead into the lunchroom. Following the path of the busy hallway, I spy my locker, at the very end, across the hall from me. And stop dead.

I realize I'm currently standing at Jonathan Crane's locker, and opposite me, he's standing at mine.

Almost in slow motion, Crane looks up, sees me, and locks his eyes with mine. It's the most intense look he's ever given me, and I'm electrocuted on the spot. He strides toward me, expressionless except for a vague calmness in his eyes, and holds my gaze as he draws nearer. Jonathan's shoulder brushes mine when he passes me, and he barely turns his head to the side to keep our eye contact as he rounds the corner and disappears down another hallway, leaving me dumbstruck and very confused.

What, in the name of God, was _that?_

I continue numbly across the hall to my locker, my original destination. Well, whatever _that_ had been…needless to say, I got goosebumps. And I'm not exactly sure why. What a weird experience. Some part of me wants to call it creepy; he scrutinizes and judges me all the time, but a different part of me says to shut hell up about that. Jonathan's stare had been different today. Almost as if he's finally seen me as a human being and not as a human jigsaw puzzle that needed analyzing and figuring out.

I don't have a freaking clue what this means for me.

Gah! I wish the world would stop spinning.

Right before I open my locker door, something catches my eye. A folded piece of white notebook paper stuck in the crack between lockers. I leap forward and seize the thing like my life depends on it. Amid the curious stares of scurrying onlookers, I unfold it with trembling fingers, letting out a breath. The words are there in a messy, yet elegant script. I think it was scrawled out in a hurry, because I can barely read it.

_A rumor is a rumor, Ames. I'm above that.  
><em>_Thank you.  
><em>_JC_

Jonathan was at my locker to leave me a note? From what it sounds like, it's in thanks of getting his keys back. But I never thought Jonathan was the type to show gratitude. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he finally gets that I'm trying to be nice and help him out. I glance at it again. _A rumor is a rumor, Ames._ What does that mean? That he's heard the talk about us and isn't bothered by it? That he's willing to be friends? _I'm above that_. Hopefully. Why does he need to be so damn elusive? For someone so good at reading people, he's pretty unreadable himself.

I give up with a sigh and tuck the note away into the pocket of my jeans. For some reason, I've decided to keep it. The hall is nearly vacant now, so I return to my original goal of getting my books for Spanish. The bell rings.

And I'm late for class.

_Should I do it?_ I wonder as I sprint through the hallways. _Should I respond with a note of my own? Would that be too cheesy? Too stalker-ish?_

After I barge into the Spanish room with a shout of, "Sorry, sorry!" the class laughs at me and Mr. Benedict just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Miss Manson, take a seat." I nod sheepishly and do so, my fingers wandering down to the paper hiding in my pocket. And I half-smile.

In class, there are a few whispers and giggles produced from behind my back, but no one actually comes up and says anything about anything to my face. No assault from Paul, but he still stares at me. I really want to crawl under my desk and die when he does that. To my left, a group of girls loudly bursts out laughing, obnoxiously, so everyone can know that they're having fun and sharing a joke. My mood darkens a bit. I'm sure that whatever they're laughing at isn't _that_ funny.

However, between Paul's staring and all the grins and giggles, Spanish class gets old fast. I watch the clock eagerly, wanting to get out and get lunch. Not that I'm chomping at the bit to eat cafeteria food or anything; it's just…maybe I can talk to Jonathan about his note. Or something along those lines. Er—I'm not sure I have the nerve though. The school bell dings again.

"_Adíos, clase,"_ Mr. Benedict says as he dismisses us. I gather up my books and rush out of there like my ass is on fire. Funny. I used to love school, and now, I just can't wait to get out of classes and get the hell home.

It takes me less than two minutes to throw my stuff in my locker. What a record. Slipping the note from my jeans, I reread it before putting it back in place. I will not show that to anyone as long as I walk this earth. Which could be short, with Falcone on my tail. Well, I don't _have_ anyone I would show it to, other than Crane. But he's already seen it. Obviously.

"Hey, Ames. How was Rail-Thin last night?" one of the football players yells out as I pass their table. I ignore them with difficulty. Ok, maybe _one_ person has said something to my face today. Not that bad.

Eventually, all of it adds up to nothing. When I get to our table, Jonathan Crane is nowhere to be found. I don't blame him for passing over the food or anything but geez! Avoid me why don't you? Then again…maybe I'm paranoid. I sit alone for the period, wondering where he could have gone.

Home Ec. passes in a blur, for once. And then, I'm in American History. I enter the room and sit down in my usual spot, next Jonathan's desk. Except there is no Jonathan. He doesn't even walk into the room when the bell rings. Annoyance turns into reluctant worry. Crane doesn't avoid people. I don't think in all his years of schooling, he's missed one day or even half of one, either. Something's definitely up. Mr. Spade simply marks down his absence with surprise and continues on normally. I sit alone again, with no form of entertainment.

During the news today, in the dark of the room, I take out Jonathan's note, spread it out on my desk, and read it again. What am I looking for? Hints?

_A rumor is a rumor, Ames. I'm above that.  
><em>_Thank you.  
><em>_JC_

I flip it over. I never checked the back of the sheet for anything… Nope. Nothing. Just as I'd expected.

But I can put something there. Hell, I'll write him a note back. Who cares if it's cheesy? Now, what to put, what to put…

I chew on the end of my blue ballpoint pen. Starting is always the toughest part. It should be a three-liner, like the one he gave me. So I'll end with my name, leaving myself only two lines to say something meaningful. Umm…appreciating his gratitude could be an option. Sure; we'll go with that. _You're welcome._ Why am I thinking about this so seriously? Keep it simple.

I need to think about his condition. Leaving school so suddenly without any warnings or reasons that I know of is unlike him. His grandmother…the bullying…and then I have the rest of the first line. _Are you all right?_

Last one. I flip the paper to the already-written-on side. No inspiration there. I've got one line left. If I think about this too hard, I'll get writer's block or whatever and never finish it. Glancing up at the television showing the usual headlines for news, I estimate that there's maybe three or four minutes left. I look back down at the note and notice something I hadn't really given much thought to before. Jonathan's handwriting. It's thin and scratchy and messy, but still has a sort of style and elegance to it. Like the script of a doctor.

His handwriting. That's my last line! Smiling cheekily, I scrawl it out on the back of his note in my small, uneven cursive.

_You're welcome. Are you all right?  
><em>_AM  
><em>_P.S. Your handwriting is terrible._

So I did end up changing the last two lines around, but it seemed a bit more fitting to add the P.S. as an afterthought. What will be his reaction to the snark/critical evaluation of his handwriting? It was probably a stupid move; he'll just turn his nose up at it and everything. Crane won't find it amusing in the slightest. But I leave it how it is.

Delivery will be the next step. I'm able to contemplate this as Mr. Spade turns the lights back on and officially starts class with notes and a lecture over our reading material from two days ago. Thankfully, multitasking is one of my strong areas, so I can think furiously and do that at the same time. No matter how many times I've gone through and over it, I still can't figure out why a part of me is putting so much thought into this. There's no reason.

Should I put the note in his locker? Or is that too cliché? Naw, that's definitely not the way to go; he'd call me a copycat. Where else, then? I'm stumped. "Dang it," I whisper to myself loudly.

Mr. Spade pauses in the middle of his lecture. "Ames, I know you're disappointed we aren't reading _The Crucible_ today, but keep it to yourself." More snickers. Is he kidding me? I blush and duck my head. I'm just really throwing myself to the wolves today, aren't I? Destiny and Summer, I see, band together to spread more rumors and lies.

This chair is slightly starting to hurt my butt, and this desk is too short for my legs. I wiggle around, trying to get comfortable. How much time is left in class anyway? How many notes on the Puritan faith have I missed today? And while I'm on this random train of thought, did Mom get the mail yesterday?

Wait a minute…mail. Mail! That's it! My and Jonathan's mailboxes are located right next to each other, side by side, at the end of our long gravel road. Holy cow, it's perfect! Didn't he say that every day at about five o'clock, he walks up the road to get the mail? _But if he went home sick, he won't be able to, _my brain chides me.

_Shut up_, I respond. _His grandmother would make him do it_. It'll be waiting for him either way. So if I go for that option, I'd have to leave my house at 4:30 or so. Maybe go outside and sing to myself, like he's seen me do before. He'd never suspect anything unusual was up until he got the note. Just like I'm going about my everyday routine.

Ok, I'm way overthinking this. Should I have this need to be so sneaky? Is that normal? I've already determined my feelings toward Crane yesterday. There's nothing there. The reason is this: he's a boy. I've never really interacted with boys before. Unless you count in the second grade when they would throw rocks at me, and I'd shove them into the dirt. He's not even a remotely attractive boy, but it's easy to become hyperaware of the fact that he still is one.

I hate my life. HATE IT! Things are never simple with me.

The final bell of the day startles me from my reverie, and I resist falling to my knees and kissing the ground or worshipping the sky. Yes. Just, yes. School is _out! _For the day. I shove the note back in my pocket and hurriedly copy down the assignment Mr. Spade's written on the chalkboard.

At the same time, I can't believe I'm going to exchange notes with Crane. Never in a million years would I have seen that one coming.

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><p>I sit on the soft couch of our living room, homework in my lap, and stare down the clock on the wall. Just a few more minutes, and I'll leave to deliver the note. At least Mom is working late. I'd decided to leave at 4:45 instead of 4:30. It's only about a quarter mile up our road, so it shouldn't take that long. Right? Remarkably, the TV is off, so between watching the clock and doing homework, I'm actually not getting that much accomplished.<p>

Speaking of which… I glance up at the device on the wall happily. Quarter to. Time to leave.

I stand up and stretch a bit before patting the note in my pocket and moving to the door in the kitchen. After I slip my tennis shoes on my feet (it's cold out), I exit through the front door and jump down the stone steps.

It's chilly outside, for spring, and the sky is _still_ gray and dreary, like it has been today and the past few days. So within a few minutes, my nose is running, and I'm sniffling like I have a cold. I should've thrown on a jacket. At least my toes aren't freezing.

"Shoulda…left…earlier," I puff as I make it three-fourths of the way up the road. It took longer than I thought, mainly because I'm not in as good of shape as I'd imagined. Just from walking, I have a wicked stitch in my side. But I finally make it. _How about when it gets warmer, you start walking a mile a day?_ Sounds good, actually. This is just embarrassing. I jog the last couple yards before halting in front of the two mailboxes.

Breathing a little too heavily, I turn to the shabby mailbox on the left with my written note in hand. I'm a little nervous about this, but there's no reason to be. Swallowing thickly, I grasp the metal tab at the top of the mailbox lid and pull it down. Very few letters in there: two bills and something that resembles a postcard.

Overcome by a sudden bout of curiosity, I take the thing out into the open air so I can look at it. Reading others' mail…I'm pretty sure that's illegal. It's addressed to Jonathan.

And holy shit, it's from Harvard.

I never realized he was _that_ brainy. But before I have time to reflect in disbelief on this fact, I hear a faint crunching of gravel from far off. I freeze. I knew I'd taken too much time walking up here! I'd bet my eyeballs that that's Jonathan coming up the road for the mail. Shoving the postcard and my note back into the box, I desperately look around for a place to hide. I can't be seen walking back toward my house. There's really nowhere to go, except…

The ditch. Oh boy. I'll hide in the ditch near here. I nearly throw myself into it. The ground is cold, and freshly growing grass tickles my nose. I resist the urge to sneeze, but instead, peer over the ditch's edge.

It takes a while, but I hold my breath as Jonathan's lanky frame arrives at the mailboxes. He looks…fine. Not sick at all. I wonder what the emergency had been. After he opens his mailbox, Jonathan's fine-boned fingers extract three, now four, letters. Here we go.

God, I'm such a creeper.

Jonathan picks out the folded note. Even from over here, I can see his blue eyes widening considerably and their color becoming more noticeable. I bite my lip as he quickly scans his surroundings (missing me) and pushes his buggy glasses up his nose out of habit. Crane unfolds the note, frowns, reads it, and looks up. Reads it again. Just those three lines. No reaction. Do I feel a little deflated?

He flips it over and snorts when he sees _his_ note to me on the other side.

When he turns his skinny body to head back to his house, Jonathan analyzes it for the third time as he walks away, running a hand through his long, greasy chestnut hair. Just three lines. And I'm lucky enough to catch the barest hint of a smirk on his face.

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><p><strong>AN: Please let me know if the style of this chapter is too jerky? It's hard to smooth things over when there are so many questions to be answered. It'll be better in the future, I promise.**

**Now, I'm feeling a little weird here. I've been thinking more on the future of the story, and I feel like I need to rush a little bit. I'm just so looking forward to getting into Ames' and Jonathan's adulthood, that I feel like time has to go a little faster. I really want to rush ahead. So have mercy on me.**

**I got a wonderful review from **Zetsubel_, _**who told me that she might actually _draw _****Ames****. It's like a dream come true! If that happens, a chapter or something can be donated to her.**

**Question of the Day: Do you have a favorite movie series, other than Nolan's _Batman?_**

**Please review! And I'm open to suggestions!**


	10. Men In Black

**A/N: Another long chapter! First of all, I feel like I need to apologize for the last chapter. I forgot to put in a few line breaks, which could've caused some confusion. I will go back and fix those. Which brings me to my next topic. As of now, I have gone back and looked through some of the chapter, editing them in the process. Nothing has been changed on this site, but will soon. Timing and wording problems have been fixed. Some of the biggest changes take place in Chapter 7, in Falcone's and ****Ames****' convo. Also, Sarah Garland looks like ****Veronica ****Lake****, not Jayne Mansfield. The incident with ****Ames****' father actually took place five and a half years ago, but for some reason I keep rounding it up to six.**

**Hmm. ****Ames****' future. I'll need to firmly tell you of a few things. Ames will change when she's older, but she will change _because_ of men, not _for _them. She will NOT develop another personality, she will NOT be an intern at Arkham, and she will NOT become Scarecrow's henchgirl. While all are good plot points, I feel that they have been overused to the point of extinction.**

**My favorite movie series (apart from _Batman_) has to be the _Transformers_ series. _Pirates of the Caribbean_ and the _Hannibal Lecter _series are extremely close seconds. _Lord of the Rings_ comes in third.**

**I now have the links to the photos of ****Ames****' present and future selves up on my profile for comparison. Refer to the note in Chapter 9. These are simply to give you an idea of her appearance.**

**Thanks to **My Purple Skies, anonymous reviewer, Personna Dilema, Silential, finishyourtea, DigThatManiac, LittleMissAngel, Arlena4815162342, SladeRavenFan, Starrycat05, Comidia Del Arte, **and **thexdarkestxnightsx **for the reviews! You guys are simply FANTASTIC!**

**Also, thanks to** thexdarkestxnightsx **for introducing me to "The Bird and the Worm" by The Used. It's SCARY how well this describes Crane. CHECK IT OUT!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. So you just go on your merry way.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten: Men in Black<strong>

_Maybe I'm the one, maybe I'm the one_

_Who is the schizophrenic psycho, yeah._

_Maybe I'm the one, maybe I'm the one_

_Who is the paranoid Flake-oh._

_~**Puddle of Mudd, Psycho**_

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><p>"Mr. Burgess! I have a song!" I shout upon bursting into chorus class the next day. Our chorus teacher, a small mousy man with a big voice, looks up at me and smiles wearily while the rest of the class stares, scowls, or laughs. I need to quit making a spectacle of myself.<p>

Wearing his customary gray suit, Mr. Burgess holds out his hand to me. "Well, let's see it." At my pause, he palms himself in the face and booms, "I need the sheet music."

I gawk at him like a stoned idiot. And swallow. I finally feel like I've been put on the spot. "Um…I—er—heard it on the radio," I mumble, eyes downcast. I had known I wasn't going to use piano accompaniment, but I feel oddly guilty about not wanting it. Mr. Burgess is such a…classical person. And he's looking at me with sad, disappointed eyes; I think he's going to cry. But I stay silent, unchanging. I will not switch for anyone. I _will_ be doing Chris Issak's "Wicked Game."

I despise Wednesdays. So close to the end of the week, but yet so far.

Mr. Burgess gives up and slumps in his piano seat. "I know your taste in music, Ames. I'm disappointed." More shaking of his white-haired head. "But do what you will." His loud voice quiets, and he turns his attention to the rest of the class as I shamefully take my seat, grimacing. "Scales, please."

While we sing, I mouth the words, and instead reminisce. All I can think about is the growing distance between me and my mom…and then Jonathan. Unfortunately. I can't believe I'd actually spied on him. _Spied_ on him! That should _not_ have happened. But I'd had the strange compulsion to see his reaction to my responding note. Had it been worth lying in a ditch for fifteen minutes? Maybe; maybe not. A smirk. What does a smirk mean?

I had lain in the ditch for a while after Jonathan started to head back, wondering at what I'd seen and what it meant. I shouldn't care; I really shouldn't. But I'll be the first to admit that I do. But I don't want to. Happily, I am getting the vibe that by standing up for him (even if not publicly) and helping him out, I'm becoming a better person and making the world a better place. Tapping my fingers against my knee, I make a final decision. This _thing_, whatever it is, will not extend past high school. Maybe, just maybe, through the summer after graduation. I can't get attached or extremely close to Jonathan because when he goes off to college at Yale or Princeton or Harvard or wherever, I won't see him again for the rest of my life. He'd be my only friend throughout my last two years of high school. And then I'd lose him.

Now I'm depressed. There's a feeling of loss here, too. Jonathan will never experience any sort of friendship or companionship toward me. Cold, unfeeling bastard. Twerp. Queer. There. I'm done venting now. And I feel bad. Really, I have no control over my temper; so, I'm unfairly being a jerk. My self-righteous anger dissipates.

I really need to converse with Jonathan. Things need to be sorted out. _We_, no matter how awkward it may be, need to talk this over. Earlier this school year, if you would've told me this would happen, I would've laughed it off and continued following Summer around like a lost puppy. I guess I've changed a little. As uncomfortable as I am, we have a lot to discuss, us two. We've already been involved enough that neither of our reputations will go uphill from here. Why avoid it?

In Art, I scribble doodles and get nothing accomplished. In Spanish, I finish all our assigned work and sit there bored for what are only minutes, but what seem like hours. Surprisingly, only a day after the gossip about Jonathan and me got out, it's already starting to fade out of existence, replaced by someone else's traumatic experiences. Sure, I get giggled and glared at and whispered about, but it's nothing I can't handle.

The bell rings. Eager for lunch, I shoot out of my seat. But when I am just _so_ close, when I'm about halfway out the door, Paul Rubin's greasy hand latches onto my forearm. Knowing who it is without even having to look back over my shoulder, I stumble farther out into the hallway so I can have more room to kick his scrawny, creeper ass, dragging him behind me. No one stops to help me out.

"Let me the hell go!" I hiss venomously through my teeth. I finally pry his filthy fingers away from my appendage with a surprisingly feminine grunt. That dark something inside of me, which I haven't felt for a while, is on edge, threatening to emerge.

"We'll go steady someday, Ames." His lisping voice floats behind me, guaranteeing a very thorough haunting of my nightmares. This is the first major confrontation I've had with Paul since last week. I say this with complete seriousness: he is one of the few human beings in this world I want to kill. Falcone and the Mob are at the top of my hit list, by the way. I swear Paul is next.

My sixth sense detects a pair of eyes on the back of my neck, so as I'm running away from Paul, I'm forced to turn back and look over my shoulder, back in Paul's direction. He shows his yellowing teeth to me, and I shudder. He probably thinks I'm looking back at him. But _he_ wasn't the one I'd felt watching me.

Regardless of the fact that I can't see anyone, I break out into gooseflesh. "It's nothing. No one," I assure myself before heading into the lunchroom. But now that _and_ Paul will haunt me.

I decide to chance the lunch today. Though it's a pile of gray mush, the tater tot casserole smells decent, even if it doesn't look appealing. When I order, Ursula glares at me. I hope she doesn't slip worms into my particular serving or anything. Nothing (that I'm aware of) has happened to the chefs because of my food poisoning incident, but there isn't a doubt in the world they've heard about it. I now have school lunchroom workers as my enemies.

Just like everyday now, I walk past the tables belonging to the jocks and popular girls without sparing them a glance. I am free of them, but they still take notice. I'm making myself more enemies. But hopefully, I have an _ally._

Jonathan is sitting at the usual table placed by the front doors. But there is still no sunshine to bask in today. Stopping in place for a few, I allow a brief wave of relief to wash over me. He's okay. Even though I had gathered that information from "stalking" him yesterday, it's good to actually see it. And be able to interact with it.

When I get a little closer, I pause again and take time to observe him. The first thing I notice is that Jonathan has books piled around him, thick, complicated-looking, old tomes. He's studying. It's the first time I've ever seen him do it in public. Something big must be coming up. The second thing I notice, however, is a new bruise on his face. I sigh and scowl in disgust. Typical Geraldine.

Realizing that I'm staring at Jonathan like I'm his secret admirer, I snap myself out of it and continue toward him. He doesn't raise his head as I approach the table, so I stand there nervously for a bit, biting my lip. I finally decide to speak. "I won't even say what the tater tot casserole looks like," I comment, gagging at the twin pile of gray-brown mush on Jonathan's tray. I immediately wonder if I should've kept my mouth shut and let him continue studying.

Crane's head snaps up in irritation, mouth open to retort with something snarky and cool. To my surprise, when he sees that it's me and not some mindless bully, he closes it and his moody expression lightens. A little, but not much. He shuts his thicker-than-a-cement-block book and turns his bright gaze to the meal on his tray, pondering it with almost pursed lips.

"They have stripped it of its dignity," he replies, agreeing with me.

Is he…amused? And not turning me away? Holy cow. He seems almost…friendly. But I've interrupted his studying. Shouldn't I be dead by now?

As he notices me hovering over the table awkwardly, Jonathan pushes his huge glasses up his aquiline nose and nods at one of the chairs across from him. "Well, you're permitted to sit."

I do, careful to keep my lunch away from his books. We can both feel it; there is a mutual understanding between us now and a discussion that needs to take place. But I won't approach it quite yet. Instead, I daringly seize one of the giant books and drag it toward me. When Jonathan doesn't say anything or attempt to rescue it or even twitch in annoyance, I begin flipping through the thick pages, scanning words and not comprehending any information. I give up at page 742, closing it and reading the gold lettering on the red cover instead.

"_Fear: A Study of the Phobias,_" I read aloud, completely baffled. "What are all these for? Are tests or exams coming up that I spaced off?"

"Just a little light reading," Jonathan replies, still absorbing one of the other books. But I see a temporary spasm in his upper lip. A twitch of annoyance? Or a twitch of amusement? He's inwardly laughing at me. _Can_ he laugh?

I just stare dumbly at all the gargantuan books surrounding us in piles. He reads these for fun? Holy brains. "Light reading. Yeah," I mutter disbelievingly. Another mouth-twitch. No doubt Crane loves his superior intelligence over the rest of us lowly beings. Eh. I guess I would, too. But he's taking _notes_ over the pages!

I crane my head to the side so I can see the title on the spine of the brown leather-bound book he's currently fixated on. _The Complete Guide to Psychopharmacology_. My brain explodes upon seeing the word. "Psycho…pharma—what?"

Crane looks up at me in an almost _knowing_ way. "Perhaps you should read it," he suggests smoothly, logically. I blush and pick at my food with my fork.

What's _wrong_ with him? No irritation at my questions and interruptions? No overly superior attitude? Does he finally understand that I won't turn against him and that I'm standing up for him because I want to? Helping him? Can returning someone's keys really have that big of an impact? Of course, I'm probably the only female who's ever treated him with respect. The teachers haven't, girls my age certainly don't, his grandmother abuses him, and his mother…possibly abandoned him, from what I've heard.

The only thing that's changed is that he's being slightly nicer to me. He's not turning into a sap or anything. I don't know if he's really warming up to me or not. It could all be another façade.

I push the huge book away from me. "_No leo libros largos," _I say to Jonathan, switching to Spanish.

Now, I have his attention. He shuts his book, raises an eyebrow, and leans his pale chin on his delicate, long-fingered hand, blue eyes flashing with interest and cold politeness. "Pardon me?"

I repeat it, and Jonathan, again, stares at me, acne-ridden brow furrowing in confusion and his overlong hair covering his eyes. I hold his bug-eyed gaze. Then it hits me. Jonathan doesn't speak Spanish. Oh, fun! I smile wickedly in spite of myself, shoving my casserole away from me.

"_¿No hablas español? ¡Madre de Díos!" _I laugh inwardly, noting Jonathan's continuingly darkening expression. He hates it when people know things he doesn't. I hate to say it, but he's fun to irritate. Another frown from him, this time accompanied with a tilt of his head. I push my luck and ask him another pointless question. "_¿Por que? No comprendo."_

"I suggest you stop while you're ahead." The new cold tone to his startlingly mature voice makes me shut up. I'd been speaking very simple Spanish, but it's clear he hadn't gotten any of it. Well, I'm definitely not winning any favors with him any time soon.

I've reverted back to being a bully of sorts, getting carried away with the knowledge of having learned something he hasn't. With Crane analyzing and observing, I wince and palm myself in the face, groaning. "I'm sorry; that was uncalled for," I apologize, unable to look at him and not expecting any brand of forgiveness. I peek through my fingers to see him anyway.

He thinks I'm not looking at him, and so I see his offended expression visibly soften, not quite forgiving. All he usually does is smirk and sneer but…he might possibly be trusting me? Is that possible? He knows I never stood up for him in middle school. Why change his opinion of me and try not to take offense?

His voice makes me uncover my face. "Ames, it's perfectly acceptable to have knowledge and to _share_ it. But flaunting it is unnecessary." I pick at my food uncomfortably and grumpily. Hmph. He's one to talk. Well…he does hide his smarts most of the time, but he does show off when he's spoken to directly. He lets you know that he'll have a full-ride scholarship to a prestigious school someday.

It's that information alone that causes me to reply with, "I guess you're rubbing off on me." Not completely the truth (but mostly), but I had to say it.

His smug smirk is back, to my surprise. Crane ignores the double-meaning and doesn't draw wrong conclusions from the remark. He looks pleased.

Oh boy.

Preparing to ruin the light mood, I finally get the guts to tell him, "Speaking of which…" I trail off, unsure of how to proceed when he snaps his laser eyes to my face. Ok. I'll just come out with it. If there's one thing Crane would hate, I'm sure it'd be beating around the bush. I sigh, and the rest of the sentence comes out in a whoosh of breath. "We have something to talk about that I've been putting off so far." There.

Shocking me again, Jonathan nods in mutual agreement and folds his hands on top of one of the giant books, already settling into a comfortable, therapist-like position as if he knows this'll be a long discussion. After I freeze up again, he gestures at me with a small, scratched hand. "Well?"

Is he really willing to listen to me? This is the most unlikely thing that's ever happened to me. I never would've thought I'd be having _this _conversation with Jonathan Crane, but I guess stuff surprises us.

"Um…" I still struggle with where to begin this talk. I can't believe Crane hasn't up and left yet, with all my stuttering and bumbling. But he sits there calmly, with a cool exterior and waits with strained patience. There's a lot I'd like to start with: would he be my friend, where had he been yesterday, his keys, etc. We'll cover them all in due time, I suppose. Hopefully within the lunch period. Any other time, and I might forget all the _preguntas_ rocketing and careening around inside my cranium.

Also, those electric eyes, magnified tenfold by those _glasses,_ make thinking straight while under scrutiny very difficult.

At long last, I decide to open with the notes we've exchanged. "So, about your note—"

Crane cuts me off with a raised finger, and a quizzical expression crosses his sharp features. "What note?" His fluid voice is lightly confused.

Time stops for me as I look at Jonathan with wide eyes, heart sputtering to a stop. Wait. What? Wha—? No note? From him? Aw hell. Wha—?

Ohshit.

I begin to panic. Jonathan sees my stressed expression and smirks. "Joking," he all but sneers knowingly.

I blink. And shoot him a dirty look as it finally sets in. "Ha ha."

It's the first time I've ever seen him smile, even if it is a smug, triumphant one. It's not even that wide or big of a smile, but it's a smile. He fooled me, the trickster! I have to grudgingly admit to myself that he is a better actor than I thought. He successfully led me to believe I'd imagined the whole note exchange.

Damn. Now I look like an idiot. I turn crimson again. "Very funny," I tell him sarcastically. I guess I'd deserved it for flaunting my Spanish-speaking talents. They say revenge is sweet. Talk about a heart attack.

"We both understand what the purpose of those were," Jonathan finally tells me. He returns to his books, scribbling down a few more notes. "Though, I have to say my handwriting is much better than yours."

I ignore the jab, refusing to enter into an unwinnable argument. I let him win. The old, smug Jonathan isn't completely gone; he's just more open to conversation and occasionally lets his know-it-all, wry humor peep through. I can live with it.

"Ames, why are you being amiable to me?" Jonathan questions unemotionally, bored. Wow. He just comes right out with it, doesn't he? He closes his book again and pinches the bridge of his nose. Something is creeping past his cold armor; he's frustrated with me, perplexed.

I'm the only human being he can't figure out. And he hates it.

My head sags. "I'm not sure myself. Last week I had…an epiphany." It's the closest I've come to actually defining it. I wait for his reaction.

Jonathan purses his full lips and points a finger at me. "Explain." So authoritative.

The only way to solve this is to let most of my inner thoughts dribble out. It's nothing I really want to do, but Jonathan needs to know. _If_ we're going to pursue this buddy system.

"Well, one day last week, it really hit me how sick I was of trying to be someone I'm not. A part of the popular crowd. I saw what I'd have to become to be one of them, and then I realized that they are headed for nothing in their futures. They'll be flipping burgers for the rest of their lives." I don't know if Crane's buying any of this, but I spot him trying to fight off another infuriating smile.

He puts me on the spot. "But why choose me to help?" he inquires. "Surely I'm not the only one in this school. I wasn't the only option." Jonathan leans forward. "Why me? You ignored me in middle school. Even joined in. Why now?"

Something I'd never though I'd have to tell him. I look away again, focusing on the cover of _Hallucinogens and How They Affect Your Brain._ I'm still not sure if Crane hates me or not. But this is almost embarrassing for me to admit, with so much guilt over my inaction. I nearly whisper, "I finally noticed _you_, a victim of torment. You were so mature, so unconcerned with silly things like popularity. You were unaffected, and you know what you want in life. You have direction and knowledge." I pause long enough to breathe, still not looking at him. Without a doubt, that single paragraph is the most I've ever spoken to him directly in my life so far. "I admired that. I do."

Crane looks at me with an unfathomable expression. He's so very good at throwing up a wall and showing nothing. He could've made a fantastic Vulcan. It's almost as if he doesn't seem quite ready to believe what I'm saying. And I can't find any reason to blame him. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. _And_ you're my neighbor, so I know more about your, uh, problems, than anyone else. And I won't say a work about them, like you told me not to." I eventually get the courage to meet him full on in his blue eyes. Light reflects off the lenses of his thick glasses, still taped down the middle. The fresh bruise near his nose stands out on his pale skin, purple against white. I don't dare tell Crane that I feel sorry for him; that I feel sympathy and pity. "That's really all," I finish, lamely lying to his face.

God, I'm such a loser.

Jonathan unfolds his hands and drums his fingers against the book in front of him. He clears his throat and states pointedly, "You returned my keys to me. I'm still baffled at how you escaped my notice in doing so. Even more so over why you seem to care about my well-being as much as you do."

Ok, I either hate his intelligence, or I admire it. Right now I despise it, and I get increasingly exasperated, giving up and giving in. "Look, Jonathan, it's not anything that can be logically explained. Believe it or not, your intelligence level does have some cons. Not everything has to be solved or reasoned."

I've just told him off. I sure know how to score points with the right people, don't I? But I add, "I think you should leave it alone. I've done everything I can to help you understand how my brain works."

As he surprises me for the umpteenth time that day, Crane takes my suggestion into consideration, not dismissing it, certainly not something he would've ever done before. He lets it go and sighs softly, inhaling lightly after. "Very well. Let us leave it at that while I attempt to comprehend your jumbled thinking." Enough with the smirking already! How does he manage to turn every response into some sort of insult?

I try to set him straight again, with one of the most original and wise quotes I've ever dreamt up tumbling out of my mouth. "You understand the human mind, Jonathan. You don't understand the human heart."

Even Crane cannot concoct a response to that.

I become very daring, already past the point of no return. "None of this—high school—will matter when we go in for job interviews in five years." I cough uncomfortably, rambling. "What I really mean is…I'm willing to side with you against the bastards and bitches." Then I realize what I've just uttered as Crane's eyes widen in mild surprise.

Clapping a hand over my flapping and fricking stupid mouth, I blush harder and become very flustered. "I—er—sorry. Um…yeeaaah." Speaking my mind aloud to Crane does _not_ include revealing my most innermost thoughts to him! Idiot, moron, imbecile…not to mention my choice of language had been extremely inappropriate. I'm permanently mortified.

Oh geez…oh man…

And there, emerging from Crane's slim throat, is the sound of an amused chuckle. My jaw hits the floor. Crane adjusts his glasses, still snickering. He sure does love to ridicule me. But it's the first laugh I've ever heard from him. I _am_ making progress!

I didn't even know he _could_ laugh.

"I admit that you _are_ amusing." So I'm merely a form of entertainment? Figures, I guess. _Pffft._ He's still chuckling, not even trying to cover or hide it.

I need to distract him from this or I'll never hear the end of it. Justifying my crude terms for the bullies in our high school, I mumble, "Well, the keys and notes showed it."

"If you say so." His only humor comes out of making fun of me.

I fold my arms onto the cool lunch table and lean forward, noticing that Jonathan, too, has abandoned his food. I bite my lip, frowning. "Speaking of which…we should've been having this conversation yesterday." I cock my head to the side. "Why were you gone? Why was it so quiet last night?"

"Grandmother is ill," he simply states, sounding immensely unconcerned. "I left early to attend to her." How can he be fighting off happiness like I currently am?

I gawk at him disbelievingly. "Wait, you're taking _care_ of her? After what she's done to you? The witch deserves to die." I can't believe I've said _that_ out loud, either.

More suppressed amusement from Crane. "Well, if I didn't, she threatened to tell the authorities I'd poisoned her." He fingers the bruise on his face.

"Ah."

"I'll admit that the thought did cross my mind," Jonathan drawls, taking a darker turn and becoming guarded and withdrawn again. Um, which thought? The one about not taking care of old Geraldine or…

Oh, Jesus, no. Please no.

I'm becoming more aware of just how much Jonathan hates his grandmother. I didn't know he could feel emotion that deeply, and I have no idea what their past history is, but it can't be all butterflies and rainbows. One moment, Jonathan's joking with (or at) me and slowly letting me in, inch by inch. The next, he's throwing up shields, stuck in his own arrogance and sense of spoiled self-righteousness, and shutting the world out. Poor kid.

I weakly close my eyes and finally, at last, offer him, "I'm so sorry for whatever's happened and is happening to you." It's the best I can do. But at least I mean it. I hope I'm not being mistaken as a lovesick teenager.

Jonathan snorts. "I don't need your pity," he instructs me icily.

Now I'm making no process at all. I do have one thing left, though. One last hope. One more thing to try. This question…the predicted answer to it doesn't look to be the one I want, but there's no harm in trying.

As Jonathan stares moodily out the glass front doors and into the drab grayness, I chew on a fingernail nervously. Why am I being so nice? …Why do I keep asking myself that question? I already know.

"I need to ask you something," I manage to squeak out.

Jonathan focuses on me and mimics my position. Leaning forward, arms folded on the table in front of him. Waiting. He doesn't like being questioned.

I swallow. Here we go.

"Can we be friends?" I ask softly, stretching out my arm across the table for a handshake.

Jonathan goes into shock. He freezes and stares at my hand with a horrified expression. I force myself not to waver under his icy glaring and fix the look of utmost sincerity on my face. I will not back down, not now. Not even if someone cuts off my toes and feeds them to llamas.

This is one of the first times I've ever seen Jonathan's composure break. He has turned the most curious shade of red, from his hands to his face and neck peeping out of the sweater worn over the tie and collared shirt. A blush or stress? _Stress_, I decide. Jonathan is not the type to blush. The heavy silence still ensues.

He's been avoided and treated like shit for so long, the idea of another human being, a _girl_ nonetheless, wanting to be more than an acquaintance is incomprehensible. He's not sure how to respond, folding his arms across his chest and pushing up his glasses. I'm starting to get a little unsure; seeing Jonathan so _undecided_ makes me uncomfortable. But damn it, I stay put.

Five minutes I stay there. Five minutes. I even count it out to 300 seconds exactly, and my arm is slowly beginning to die; I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it there. A sledgehammer couldn't have shattered the tension between us. All we do is eyeball each other, with my arm sticking out awkwardly between us. Crane's in a dark mood at the moment, a very dark mood. Has he even touched another human before?

My stubbornness pays off. At the end of those five minutes, Jonathan begins to move, though this is the most hesitant, the most unsure I've ever seen him. He must've finally believed my sincerity. We lock gazes and stare each other down as Crane slowly extends his own arm toward me. Neither of us blinks or breathes as he finally grasps my hand.

VICTORY! TRIUMPH! Finally, a handshake! And after all the times he's turned one down. Twice, to be exact. And I have a new friend, as corny as it sounds. The sane part of my mind _still_ wonders why I'm doing this.

Crane's hand is small and elegant, with long, tapered fingers that would be excellent for playing the piano. Surprisingly smooth, cold, and fragile, for a boy's hand. Exactly like it had looked. Comparing our two appendages gripping each other, I note that my meaty hand could definitely crush his fine-boned one.

We shake; once, twice. Not the wary handshake I'd been expecting, but a firm one, resounding with both caution and finality. When we let go, Jonathan is calm again. His clear eyes are now void of any earlier turmoil. Still, I can't resist breaking out into an idiotically wide smile. A friend. I have an official _friend._ Things will be so much easier between us now.

Openly, Jonathan rolls his eyes. "Do not count on it," he warns me. "This is temporary."

Yes, I know that. So I simply nod at him, still grinning and unable to speak for some reason. Just happy for now. On cue, the bell rings, ending our lunch period. Ending all eyes (that I've been feeling the WHOLE time) focusing on us. Everyone saw that. This'll do nothing to help the rumors, bound to start afresh tomorrow. _Oh well,_ I think, suddenly finding myself unable to care. I'm above them.

Jonathan begins stacking his heavy, "light reading" books up in his arms, preparing to leave. All the red has faded from him, and he's composed again. I do feel a little better about that. Things are going to be _so_ much easier. But I do have one last request.

I clear my throat. "Um, wait. Jonathan?"

"Yes?" he asks evenly, looking up from his organizing.

"If anything's ever wrong and you don't want to talk about it, leave a note in my mailbox."

The ghost of a smirk as he turns away. "Perhaps I will."

* * *

><p>Again, I have a mood change that night. And again, I make another stupid move. I cut work, not able to tell Mr. Sorvino that I'm quitting. I'll do it on Friday. I just won't show up today or tomorrow, causing him to think I'm probably sick again.<p>

That isn't my stupid move, however. After school, I'd run home and grabbed a dark, oversized hooded sweatshirt and a pair of baggy, nearly destroyed jeans. I'm now wearing them, my disguise. Mom hadn't been home to ask questions about what I'm going to do. I don't have any other reason for doing this, other than curiosity. Maybe it's the thrill of taking the risk. Maybe asking Jonathan to be my friend has given me a certain dumb, reckless boldness.

What's my stupid move? Well, I'm going to explore the Narrows. Me, a bad-tempered, scared, hurt seventeen-year-old girl, is going to start the hunt for Falcone. I need to start taking down the Mob.

Oh, I know I won't accomplish anything other than getting myself killed in some stupid way, but I find myself unable to summon up any concern over that fact. Honestly, I won't be able to do much other than that and gathering information. I know that deep down in my heart, I can never kill anybody. Not unless I'm given really good incentive. Which Falcone has, I suppose.

I pat the pocket of my sweatshirt, feeling the outline of the butcher's knife I'd snatched from our kitchen before taking off. If anyone tries to hurt me…

"…you're toast," I say aloud. Well, at least I'd handicap them enough for me to run away.

I park my pickup on the same street that Wonderland is on. The junction where Gotham either stays fancy or turns into trash. I don't park _at_ Wonderland; I go a little farther down the street, to a casino/strip joint called Fever. This nightclub has been the entertainment boast of many of the boys in my class. It's active, now that it's 8 o'clock. I see multicolored, pulsing lights flying through the windows and new techno music pounding noisily through the streets. I roll my eyes, opening my driver's side door. Disappointing.

The gas-lit streetlamps give everything a ghostly orange glow. And the sky is black. I must be suicidal, walking through the Narrows at night, even if I'm just ambling around the outskirts. But if I'd ever felt creeped out by this place before, I feel a little more at home now. More comfortable. This is a fitting place for the black moods that seem to be popping up inside me more and more frequently. I feel…one with the night, with the crazies and criminals stalking the streets. I stalk along with them, pulling the hood over my head and sticking my hands in the sweatshirt's pocket, gently brushing the knife. The hood shadows my face. With the height I have and my broad shoulders, I can easily pass for a guy.

So, with increasing calmness, I stroll down cracked sidewalks, occasionally nodding to the odd, demented, shady-looking passerby. But generally, I just act very gruff and unfriendly. Thank whoever is up there for small talents. And because I'm bigger, no one approaches me.

As I walk, I kick beer cans and shattered bottles aside with my sneakers, keeping my hands in my pocket and on the handle of knife. I remember back to what Mr. Spade said during American History today. We aren't reading _The Crucible_ until Friday. What crap! I've been looking forward to it so much…

I start feeling a little jumpy. Unavoidable. This place reeks, it's dark, and I'm getting sick of brushing aside ragged hobos who keep asking for money or drugs. "Got nuthin'," I respond roughly. This isn't even the worst of the Narrows; I dare not go any deeper in.

It's when I pass the old, destroyed grocery store, however, that I realize I've wandered to the same dank area of the Narrows as from a while back. I stop in the middle of the street. I'm not worried about cars hitting me. It's almost as if no one drives a car down here. No danger there. I think. Why do I take dumb actions? I haven't discovered anything useful tonight. Can I make it out alive?

I have a heart attack as two objects literally _streak_ from an alley and stop in the middle of the road. They stare at me and my heart stops.

Holy shit. Was that a sword?

I've only got about three seconds to spare, but I see that they're smaller figures, dressed completely in tight black clothing. And they're fast little buggers, whoever or whatever they are.

Great. Gotham's being attacked by ninjas.

I frown. Something to investigate. And before I can blink, the figures take off.

"Hey!" I yell, and run after them. But they're gone. I wonder at my stupidity, trying to chase down things that are in possession of swords as long as my arm. I walk over to the alley they disappeared down and stare into the darkness. Nothing.

But a rat comes skittering out. A mutant one roughly the size of a tomcat. And it doesn't foam at the mouth and gnaw off my foot below the ankle like I'd expected it to. It simply darts between my feet and vanishes into some other garbage heap.

Once my heart stops galloping around in my chest like a racehorse gone wild, I scratch my head and briefly wonder what else this city's coming to.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay, first of all, who went to see _In Time_? Though not a great movie, it certainly was a fun ride and really gets you thinking. Of course, I only went to see it not because of Justin Timberlake, but because of Cillian Murphy. I and my friend, whom I led to become obsessed with Cillian through only _Batman Begins_ and _Red Eye,_ would literally "SQUEEEEEEEE!" whenever he came on screen. But it was okay, seeing that we were only two of four people in the movie theater. He did a _fantastic_ job, and really was the only one who carried the movie. _Mmmm_, that black leather coat…**

**So who else heard the Cillian may be in _The Dark Knight Rises_? I'm going to assume so, being seen on set and all. Plus, there's a video up of him being coy about answering to that particular question. Totally avoids it. SO WHO'S EXCITED? Pray, people. PRAY!**

**Question of the Day: What word or phrase bugs the hell out of you?**

**More _Crucible_ next chapter. Also, school gets boring to write about. HELP!**

**Let me know what you think!**


	11. She's a Witch!

**PLEASE READ!**

**A/N: I am writing this author's note because of an "anonymous" review I got for Chapter Ten, in hope of clearing a few things up. ****Some very good points have been made, I'll give you that.**

***sigh* I should've expected it. And everyone _is _entitled to their opinion. Just to clarify: this is NOT a high school romance story. That comes later, in adulthood. There shall be no romance in high school life. If so, it would be one-sided and not returned. The overview is not meant to be misleading, for nowhere in it does it give the implication of any romance. The word "involved" does not automatically mean "romantically involved."**

**Storylines are changeable. Crane _did_ grow up in ****Georgia****; but I tweaked it a bit. There will be a reference made to Georgia later; he and his grandmother moved to Gotham before he started school, which you were going to find out in the future, as Ames' and Jonathan's friendship progresses. This fanfic is more of a _movie-verse_ story, with some added elements of the comics. The movie itself doesn't give a lot of back-story to Jonathan's character. It's why this story is listed under "Movies" and not under "Comics."**

**And lastly, yes, I know Jonathan didn't have any friends growing up. But throwing a new character into the mix changes a lot of things. The teenage Crane is _different_ (for now) from the adult Crane_._ If anything, this rocky friendship in high school will be more of a reason for him to change when he's older.**

**It is not my intent to start a flamewar nor do I mean any disrespect to anyone. I'm merely explaining myself in a civil fashion and saying that I will be changing a few things, but not everything. Everyone needs to have an open mind. If you don't like it, don't read it. It's called "fanfiction" for a reason.**

**Anyway. My least favorite phrase has to be, without a freaking doubt, the word "legit." It grates on my nerves, and I want to strangle whoever so utters it. They have stripped down the magnificent word "legitimate" to mean a dumb word that's used to describe anything considered "cool." For example, "That's legit." Or, "Yeah, this party's legit." And so forth. Grrr….**

**Thanks to **Nicoteen, Comidia Del Arte, SladeRavenFan, My Purple Skies, Arlena4815162342, finishyourtea, Quelara, LittleMissAngel, itspeanutbutterjellytimex3, thexdarkestxnightsx, Silential, **and **SilhouetteGypsy **for the reviews.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Jonathan Crane, _Batman Begins, _or _the Dark Knight._ Or the comics. No lyrics either. Eat it.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven: She's A Witch!<strong>

_There I go again,_

_Pretending to be you._

_Make-believing_

_That I have a soul beneath the surface._

_Trying to convince you_

_It was accidentally on purpose._

_**~The Dresden Dolls, Girl Anachronism**_

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><p>Thursday passes like a breeze, and suddenly Friday is here. The threat of ninjas invading Gotham is at the back of my mind, but I know it's a mystery that needs to be looked into. Preferably not by police. Our system is corrupt. Ugh, nothing would be done about it. But they'd had weapons! Swords! I know what I saw. The figures, two nights ago, hadn't ran at me, whirling numchucks. If they were really ninjas like I'd thought. Why?<p>

Most likely though, they are just a couple of the Narrows' kooks on everyday business. Nothing to be concerned about. Maybe I'm just hallucinating and slowly going insane; it would explain a lot. The possible explanations are endless. And then there's the small chance that I'm right…but I doubt it.

With Crane as my friend (however short it may be), things have become less awkward. Still stiff, but more comfortable. We actually have a reason to be in each other's company, for my speaking to him and him reluctantly replying. Actually, we haven't become anything more than acquaintances. Just friends in name. We aren't besties, nothing between us is tender or warm or fuzzy. But something's changed a bit, even if it was pretty darn near unexplainable.

The term "friends" is a really loose word. Things aren't really turning out the way I'd planned. He could just be playing me, too.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Crane asks, not glancing up from the book he's currently reading. His voice is so perfectly level.

I look up from my own book, smoothing out my wrinkled brow. Not really my book, but one of his. At the moment, _The Complete Guide to Psychopharmacology._ Interesting, from what my small brain can comprehend. Jonathan had refused to let me touch the books yesterday, but after assuring him that I wanted to "extend my knowledge," he'd permitted me to look through them, to sate my curiosity. We are both multitasking at the lunch table. Things are easier, but most of our time spent together during lunch is in silence, reading and eating.

Goulash again. Yuck.

"It's nothing," I mumble. Damn Crane for being so observant.

Still reading, he lifts a bite of goulash to his mouth. "I will leave you to do your thinking." A pause. "Don't hurt yourself."

Grrr…

"I won't dignify that with a response," I grumble, more to myself than anyone else. But Jonathan's quick ears catch it. He smirks to himself, victorious.

Huh. "Friend" indeed.

I'll risk it. "Well, if you really want to know," I suggest. _Damn it, girl! Don't tell him, don't tell him, don't tell him…_ "Gotham's being attacked by ninjas."

Jonathan chokes on a noodle.

I patiently wait for his uncomposed coughing fit to subside. When Jonathan rights himself, he stares, not at my face, but past me. "I'm beginning to question your sanity." He thinks I'm an idiot.

"No, no, no," I insist. "I saw them with my own eyes. Two of them." I wave my sauce-covered fork in the air, careful not to speckle the book next to my tray.

Jonathan raises his eyebrows, still sucking information in from his book. He doesn't believe me, and undoubtedly thinks I'm pulling his leg with these "fantasies" of mine, but he humors me. Like a psychiatrist would. "All right. You saw two ninjas. Where, pray tell?" His tone is sarcastic, and it doesn't seem like he's really paying attention.

So I bang my fork on the table and force him to look up at me. I glare into his annoyed eyes. "I'm serious. Why would I tease you, or lie to you?"

"You tell me." Things are so tense today. Even more so than two days ago.

"But to answer your not-so-sincere question," I snap, "I was walking in the Narrows last night, and they ran out of an alley. I wasn't deep in that place. Just on the edge." Truth rings in my every word.

Whether he believes said truth is indiscernible. I wish I was that good at hiding my feelings. "You are either very brave or very stupid. Given the circumstances, I would think the second," he murmurs disapprovingly, to himself and not anyone else. But I'm sure he means for me to hear it. The only thing I do to let him know I hear it is scowl at him. Believe it or not, Crane still makes it hard to be civil.

"Yeah, I'll admit that I'm crazy." I'm still smarting off. Something has put me in a terrifically bad mood today. Telling a story this strange to someone as logical as Jonathan is probably not one of my greatest ideas. Especially not to someone interested in pursuing a field in psychology in their future. I don't sound unlike a raving lunatic.

Also, even the fact that it's Friday doesn't bring joy into my life.

Distracted and edgy, unable to stand Jonathan's company any more for the time being, I slam the heavy volume shut and slide it across the table toward him, not wanting to read about psychopharmacology right now. "Here. I'm going to the library." There are fifteen minutes left in our lunch period. I take hold of my tray, feeling weighed down.

Something's off today. Something's wrong. I just don't feel like myself. Whether it's from Jonathan's inability to understand the concepts of friendship, ninjas running around our godforsaken city as they please, or the knowledge that I'm officially quitting my job tonight, I'll never be able to determine. But something doesn't feel right.

"See you in History," I tell him shortly, and leave. I try to ignore the feel of his offended eyes drilling holes in my back as I dump my mostly uneaten lunch in one of the giant blue trashcans. I'm not really angry; I'm not even that mad at him for any particular reason, other than his stabbing, arrogant jabs at my intelligence level. Why can't he get it into his head that just because _his_ IQ is off the charts, the rest of the world is _not_ dumber than cavemen? I am not an imbecile. Completely.

About thirty seconds later, I prove it. Not really paying attention, I see the double-doors leading into the hallway open and slowly begin to close. I keep walking at a leisurely pace, expecting to go right on through them with perfect and graceful timing. Not so. At the last possible second, the doors close, and I walk smack into unmoving solidness.

Luckily for me, I'd put my arms out in time so that my hands make contact instead of my face. The impact jars my wrists. Yeesh, I'd really been moving! Though I'm uninjured, I rest my head against the doors, face burning. And he's watching. I barely turn my head to the side and spot Jonathan out of the corner of my eye. I shouldn't care. _I shouldn't care. He's all the way over there._

Crane sits stiller than usual, an unfathomable expression on his face. Oh, the drama!

* * *

><p>He's already in his place by the time I get to American History. Feeling a bit edgy, I sit gingerly in the desk next to him, but make sure to scoot it over about five inches. Summer and Jonathan both notice, the former smiling snootily. What? Does she think I'm coming back to her or something? No. I need my space.<p>

Oh, hey; we're reading _The Crucible_ today. Woot! At least I can feel a little happier.

Five minutes pass. Silence for me and Jonathan, obnoxiously loud laughing and chattering for everyone else. I fold my arms on my scratched desk and rest my head on them. Today's mood _really_ needs to lighten up. Not that the dreary weather outside is helping anything. I peer out the window on the far side of the room. Yuck…I think it's going to rain later.

Eventually, Mr. Spade comes into the room, telling us to shut up and calm down. All of us are surprised, however, when our artistic teacher doesn't flip on the news as usual. Instead, he strides to the front of the room, in the center, and prepares to speak. Huh. Interesting. A nice change of pace. Hearing about another stabbing, mugging, or bank robbery really wouldn't have done anything to lighten my mood.

"Well, first of all," Mr. Spade begins, "we have two things to talk about. One: I need to know who'd all be interested in doing a musical for next year's spring play. Two: we need a movie for the end of class in May, for us to watch when we finish the play." He quirks a brow at us. "First one first."

After thirty seconds of silence, I shakily raise my hand. "I'm interested in a musical, Mr. Spade." Murmurs amongst classmates.

"Of course you are, Ames," Mr. Spade says. "We know you can sing."

"Ames can't sing!" a particularly annoying female voice yowls from the other side of the room. Destiny Holder, always contradictory. She may be worse than Summer. "Or act." An afterthought.

I'm pretty sure a vein is bulging in my forehead and that I turn the most brilliant shade of red the world has ever seen. So sick of this! Normally I can shake it off, but when it comes down to my passion, something I love… No go. So I defend myself, despite the fact that the whole class is staring me down. "I can too!"

Maybe I shouldn't have said that so loudly…

"Prove it," Destiny taunts, smug in her own perfection. Mr. Spade lounges against the wall, smiling amusedly and watching us battle it out. There will be no intervening coming from him.

I really want to prove it. Like, _really_ want to, just so I can slam it down in Destiny's snotty little face. But am I allowed? I don't want to show off. Okay, not _that_ much. Plus, Crane is watching this all with avid interest. Torn, I look to Mr. Spade. He's seen me perform; he knows what I can do. "May I?" I mouth at him boldly, becoming someone else. The din in the classroom escalates as everyone bickers among themselves.

Mr. Spade nods at me. Thank god for creative teachers.

Approval confirmed.

Taking a deep breath, I get out of my desk and stand up straight, focusing. What should I sing? Well, I'm quitting my job tonight. Shouldn't I do something that I consider off-limits? That someone else better has done? I'll feel like I'm doing a cover, but I've got nothing to lose. I relax, smiling and putting my hands on my hips. Ah. Sarah. Got it.

"_You had plenty of money in 1922…"_ I croon. Ears perk up, talking stops, and classmates twist in their desks to watch me, looking surprised. As I sing, I look at them all, and then at Mr. Spade, and finally at Jonathan. He has no expression as I aim the song at him. In fact, he looks strangely frustrated and…furious, after a while.

"_Get out of here; get me some money, too…"_ I'm not Sarah; that's for sure. But I bring my own something to the classic tune. Sarah's _perfect_ for it, all smokiness and smolder and softness. The exquisite package. But I give it a richer sound, a more modern and feisty feel. Definitely stronger, with a rocker edge. It's pure me. And I can do that _and still_ keep all my vowels and sounds pure.

Jonathan arranges his face into an uninterested mask now. I'm getting to him. Eh, I won't try anything in class.

I finish well, strong. _"Why don't you do right,"_ I sing, _"like some other men do?"_ Wonderful. I'd managed to hit the last high note and fully hold out the last word to its full effect. If I would've had accompanying music, everything would've been so much better.

But hey; it gets me a hearty round of applause. I allow myself a fleetingly triumphant look before sitting back down. Destiny sulks in her seat, Summer glares with her group, Naomi smiles, and Jonathan doesn't even glance my way. Maybe I've proven to him that I _can_ take my talents to a higher and better place, just like he disapproves of. I try to appear collected and cool, but inside, I'm shaking; like I do after I give a performance of any kind. What had I just done?

"There, Ames. You can tell the nonbelievers to eat feces and expire," Mr. Spade jokes, clapping his hands twice. I choke back a giggle at his variation of the regular phrase. "Now, to the second order of business…" This time, people participate, raising their hands.

I don't, for the time being. I just sit there and watch my classmates throw out suggestions for a movie. If someone even mentions _The Birds_, I'll kill them. Mr. Spade shoots down romantic comedy after romantic comedy, shaking his head.

This is going nowhere. I have one; I'd bought the VHS tape this last summer. But actually watching it in _school_ might be a bit of a stretch. But success has made me bold. So I raise my hand.

"Yes, Ames? Give me something worth listening to." Mr. Spade folds his lean arms and waits for my suggestion. "Enlighten me."

A beat. "_The Silence of the Lambs,_" I say quietly, giving him one of the greatest movies ever made. I literally elicit a few gasps from the class.

"But that's so messed up!" Annie Bates breathes. I roll my eyes. Chickens. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jonathan shaking his head from side to side. The movement is hardly visible, but I see it.

"It's also a good psychological thriller," Mr. Spade agrees, taking my side. "Fantastic film. The only problem I foresee is having to send home parental approval forms. Some of the content is…questionable." True. There was that one scene with Miggs, and the one with Buffalo Bill…

I cross my fingers under my desk. Everyone _needs_ to see this one. I bet Jonathan would enjoy it, even. "If I do that… I guess there isn't anything wrong with it." I resist the urge to stand up and cheer happily.

Two victories in one day. _Oh, Anthony Hopkins…_ Wait 'til I get to share you with everyone else.

"Now," Mr. Spade continues, holding up his small book, "_The Crucible."_ Cue angry muttering here. "Circle up, but remain standing—"

"No way," I whisper. Awesome!

"—because we're going to do things a little differently today." He slaps his copy of the play against his hand; once, twice. "We're going to act this thing out. I noticed a lack of enthusiasm the last time. So this is my way of keeping you from falling asleep."

I'm excited. I hear sighs, see eyes roll, and notice nasty looks thrown in Mr. Spade's general direction as we slowly move to get organized. You'd think by the time we all became juniors that we would have matured a little. Been more accepting towards things like this.

Once everything and everyone is in place, we begin right where we left off, with all the adults rushing into the room. I begin with, "'She heard you singin' and suddenly she's up and screamin'.'" I don't move around or gesture a whole lot from where I am, because suddenly I'm feeling self-conscious about my performance aspect.

I can tell, just from the beginning of this section, that Abigail's involvement won't be coming in until the end of the act. The adults (Mr. and Mrs. Putnam, Parris, Giles, and Rebecca) chime in and argue one at a time before Mr. Spade reads the brief introduction of Rebecca Nurse. Her character quiets Betty Parris, and everyone is in awe of her.

Jonathan stands rigidly, playbook held tightly out in front of him as if he's reading a particularly boring sermon. When Cindy Josephson finishes her paragraph for Rebecca Nurse, he comes in tonelessly with, "'Aye, that's the truth of it, Rebecca.'" I will not look at him; I will NOT! Maybe I'm just paranoid, but I swear he's trying to irritate me by being so dry.

Luke Winters reads, "'A wide opinion's running in the parish that the Devil may be among us, and I would satisfy them that they are wrong.'"

More general deadness. "'Then let you come out and call them wrong. Did you consult the wardens before you called this minister to look for devils?'" C'mon, guys! We're even standing. All of us! I wish Jonathan and I had more interaction; this is killing me. Just from his last lines, he ain't gonna budge. More arguing ensues between Proctor, Putnam, and Parris, with Cindy intervening timidly as Rebecca Nurse. Jonathan pushes his glasses up his nose before reciting, "'He may turn his head, but not to Hell!'" He hesitates before the last word. I have to admit that any form, any usage of the word "hell" coming from Jonathan's clever mouth sounds strange beyond words.

I being to feel oddly put out, with not being included in this conversation. I skip forward a few—a lot, actually— pages to find that I don't come back into the story until Tituba's being accused. I guess I can just relax for a bit. I sigh, leaning back against my desk, which I'm standing in front of.

Cindy soothes, "'Pray, John, be calm.'" She does sort of have an old lady-like gentleness to her personality. Very motherly. I also quickly learn that I do not like the character of Mrs. Putnam. What a nosy, sniveling woman. I'm also getting the impression that Proctor is very outspoken.

Remarkably, as Proctor, Giles, and Parris begin discussing payments and mortgages and property and ownership, Jonathan becomes a little more interested, a little more enthused. Oh, brother. Some of the most boring stuff in the world, that stuff is. _Do not watch him; do NOT._

But when it comes to arguing, even stoic men cannot resist getting more into the story. The pace of the reading picks up, and you can tell that the levels of competitiveness are climbing higher. "'What, are we Quakers? We are not Quakers here yet, Mr. Proctor. And you may tell that to your followers!'"

Eh. I don't like Parris much either.

Jonathan's "exclamation." "'My followers!'"

"'There is a party in this church. I am not blind; there is a faction and a party.'" Luke is still absolutely lifeless.

"'Against you?'" There. Despite my best efforts, I peek at Jonathan, shifting my weight back and forth from foot to foot. One of his eyebrows has gone up. This line is cynical, just like him.

Again, Cindy comes in as the peacemaker, before Giles chimes in. Oh, money troubles. I begin to sympathize with the rest of the class stuck standing here doing nothing. I don't think Mr. Spade's going to let us have a break either. He goes straight into the four page introduction of Reverend John Hale of Beverly. "'Mr. Hale is nearing forty…'"

This'll be long beyond all reason. Why? Some of us feel like we're being tortured. But, finally, he finishes. I swear that we are using up all the boys in our class to fill in male roles. Neil Edelman had been cast as Reverend Hale. He's on the other side of the room, looking nervous.

"'Pray you, someone take these!'" Huh. At long last, a boy who finally sounds like a good actor. Gentle soul.

Luke pales even more in comparison. "'Mr. Hale! Oh! It's good to see you again! My, they're heavy!'"

"'They must be; they are weighted with authority.'' Some part of me and Jonathan will both love that line. Him especially. Many different things and comings and goings are explained to Reverend Hale as the scene progresses. In hope that he can come up with a cure, obviously.

Turns out Jonathan and I (not that I care) would not have a scene together. Or for a while, it seems. He's done for the day. Crane's last line is, "'I've heard you to be a sensible man, Mr. Hale. I hope you'll leave some of it in Salem.'" His tone is condescending and laced with relief. He knows he's finished.

"All right, Jonathan. You're done. Sit down and enjoy yourself," Mr. Spade bids him. He does so, and even keeps his book open so he can follow along for the rest of the act. _Don't look, don't care. Don't look, don't care…_

There's some more general grumbling at Jonathan's privilege. The rest of us standing have done nothing, and a few will continue to do nothing; yet, they have to stand? Mr. Spade's reasoning is warped.

Mr. Hale has a long look at Betty, who's apparently still lying there, and I discover that Abigail is still in the room as well, silent as death. Children really _were_ seen and not heard. And then Luke Winters, as Parris, blabs the whole suspected reason for Betty's current state. "'Why, sir—I discovered her—and my niece and ten or twelve other girls, dancing in the forest last night.'"

"'You permit dancing?'"

"'No, no, it were secret—'"

And then BAM! The blame is thrown on Tituba. Across the room, I can see Annie Bates readying herself to read soon. Apparently, I'll be coming in sooner than her, though. This play doesn't move fast enough. Mrs. Putnam reveals she lost seven babies in childbirth, before Hale does more pondering and Rebecca Nurse leaves. After that, Cindy is allowed to sit down, too.

There's a hint of some ominous foreshadowing though, as Giles Cory and Hale being to talk with each other. "'It discomfits me! Last night—mark this—I tried and tried and could not say my prayers. And then she close her books and walks out of the house, and suddenly—mark this—I could pray again!'"

_Idiot,_ I think darkly.

After some more discussion of Giles' wife, Hale move his hands over Betty and says a prayer, all to no avail. And then he turns to Abigail, to me, and asks, "'Abigail, what sort of dancing were you doing with her in the forest?'"

Loosening up and smiling charmingly, I lie, "'Why—common dancing is all.'" Does she really expect them to believe that?

Parris: "'I think I ought to say that I—I saw a kettle in the grass where they were dancing.'"

I lie again. "'That were only soup.'"

"'What sort of soup were in this kettle, Abigail?'"

"'Why, it were beans—and lentils, I think, and—'"

More discussion about the soup. I claim that a frog jumped in, say that I never called the devil, and blame Tituba. She just _has_ to lay it on the poor woman. When I assure everyone that no one drank from the "soup", Tituba is brought in. "'She made me do it! She made Betty do it!'"

And so begins the crying of "witch."

Annie Bates exclaims, "'Abby!'" I'm so glad some people want to be animated.

Desperate, I point fingers further. "'She makes me drink blood!'"

More yelling. Then Tituba insists, "'I love me Betty!'"

Neil reads nervously, "'You have sent your spirit out upon this child, have you not? Are you gathering souls for the Devil?'"

I throw Tituba to the sharks. "'She sends her spirit on me in Church; she makes me laugh at prayer!'" The rest of us are standing up straighter, interested now that things are picking up speed.

Parris supports Abigail. "'She have often laughed at prayer!'"

The tale Abigail tells next is so ridiculous that I'm thoroughly surprised that the characters believe it. I wipe my sweating palms on my thighs. "'Sometimes I wake and find myself standing in the open doorway and not a stitch on my body! I always hear her laughing in my sleep. I hear her singing her Barbados songs and tempting me with—'" My voice grows in frenzy until I'm interrupted by Neil.

Hanging and beatings are used as threats. Tituba cracks and admits she loves God, but also testifies to seeing the Devil. The whole scene has an old gospel feel to it. Annie does a great job.

Luke, still unable to capture the speed and desperation of the moment, questions blandly, "'You mean out of Salem? Salem witches?'"

"'I believe so, yes, sir.'" Her response is firm. More praying and absolving of sins and inquiring follow before Tituba somewhat maliciously remarks, "'Oh, how many times he bid me kill you, Mr. Parris!'"

"'Kill me!'"

And now, Tituba's longest and most passionate speech of the play. "'He say Mr. Parris must be kill! Mr. Parris no goodly man, Mr. Parris mean man and no gentle man, and he bid me rise out of my bed and cut your throat! But I tell him, 'No! I don't hate that man, I don't want to kill that man.' But he say, 'You work for me, Tituba, and I make you free! I give you pretty dress to wear and put you way high up in the air, and you gone fly back to Barbados!' And I say, 'You lie, Devil, you lie!' And then he come one stormy night to me, and he say, 'Look! I have _white_ people belong to me!' And I look—and there was Goody Good.'"

I gain a new respect for Tituba. I mean, I wish I could lie on the spot like that.

Goody Osburn is accused soon after. And at this point, I think Abigail is feeling a little left out because suddenly I'm forced to read, "'I want to open myself!'" I give myself an enraptured air, voice very loud. "'I want the light of God, I want the sweet love of Jesus! I danced for the Devil; I saw him; I wrote in his book; I go back to Jesus; I kiss his hand. I saw Sarah Good with the Devil! I saw Goody Osburn with the Devil! I saw Bridget Bishop with the Devil!'" I'm in near sobbing tears by the end of this.

Betty awakens while Mr. Spade reads stage directions. "'As she is speaking, Betty is rising from the bed, a fever in her eyes, and picks up the chant.'"

"'I saw George Jacobs with the Devil! I saw Goody Howe with the Devil!'" Connie howls convincingly. That's more like it! You can _feel_ the excitement climbing higher and higher.

Luke, however, is still dead. "'She speaks! She speaks!'" I almost crack up at him.

Neil shouts, "'Glory to God! It is broken, they are free!'"

Connie, once more. "'I saw Martha Bellows with the Devil!'"

Me, gleefully joining in again. "'I saw Goody Sibber with the Devil!'"

Putnam. "'The marshal, I'll call the marshal!'"

The Blame Game continues as Act One ends. Connie shrieks, "'I saw Alice Barrow with the Devil!'"

Hale: "'Let the marshal bring irons!'"

My turn. "'I saw Goody Hawkins with the Devil!'"

Connie: "'I saw Goody Bibber with the Devil!'"

I have the last-ish line. The wait had been worth it after all. "'I saw Goody Booth with the Devil!'"

Mr. Spade finishes. "'On their ecstatic cries, the curtain falls.'"

Energy buzzes in the air. Silence. Progress has finally been made. Ten seconds later, still tingling, I force myself to breathe, trembling again. Jonathan finally looks at me as we all shut our books and sit down. It's apparent that he's going to have something to say later. I attempt to pull myself out of Abigail Williams' character. I can't look at anybody.

"Whoa," someone whispers to themselves. Some of us murmur along in agreement. And just like that, the bell for the end of the day rings.

"Good job, guys. You can leave your desks where they are, because I saw some improvement today." We gather up our stuff before Mr. Spade targets one of us. "Luke, work on it." Said boy nods and flees the classroom. "Have a good weekend, everybody." I'm very pleased to hear students discussing the play as they leave.

But almost as soon as I exit the room and start down the hallway, Jonathan rigidly falls into stride with me, staring straight ahead. "Your acting is over the top."

I nearly stop in the middle of the hallway and slam him against a wall. How dare he! He's just like everyone else! But instead of acting out that fantasy, I keep pace with him and growl, "No, it's not. I'm good. Damn good."

"You know that you can't take it anywhere." Now that we are talking and walking after school, we're attracting even more attention. I don't care. We have a _dispute_ here.

I glare at the side of Jonathan's dark-haired head. "Okay, you know what?" I'm so wired and furious right now. I actually reach out and grab his scrawny shoulder. He wrenches it out of my grasp with a twist, but doesn't run away. He doesn't stray from confrontation. "What you _people_ need to understand is that I'm not just some girl going for the gold with stars in her eyes!" We are nearing our lockers.

"You get irritated so easily," Crane remarks matter-of-factly, not even getting riled up. How does he do it? He walks to his locker and opens it. I follow him, positively cheesed. It's easy to get in someone's face when you're six inches taller than them.

He is the Master of Jerks. I clench my fists and remain quiet. Time to sort this thing out once and for all. There's a stretch of silence as Jonathan places books in his locker and takes others out. I lean against the locker next to his and ask sourly, "We're not really friends, are we?"

Crane slams the locker door shut. "Not at all."

I have to admit, despite all of his arrogance and meanness, it stings to know he never saw us as such or desired human companionship in the first place. "Fine. But we can still, you know," I say irritably, "interact?" What an awkward word.

He shifts his books in his arms and pushes his glasses back up his straight nose for the nth time today. They really can't go up any farther. But he thinks on my request, and after a while, allows it. "Not friends," he assures me with a hint of dryness and relief. "We are acquaintances. Nothing more." And right then and there, he abandons me to join the mass of students heading through the double-doors for the weekend.

Well.

I let out the breath I'd been holding and rub my face, somewhat stressed out. That ended just fine and dandy. As will tonight, I'm sure. At least we got some things sorted out.

* * *

><p>It's raining in Gotham. It's always raining in Gotham. Or muggy. For the season of spring—late April now—, it doesn't feel like <em>spring<em>. Where's the warm pleasantness?

I'm considering chickening out now. My truck is idling outside of Wonderland, and I'm nervous, debating whether I should be going in and getting it over with or not. Why do we all feel so scared at moments like these? It's almost 4:45; I've been sitting out here for fifteen minutes. And it's getting darker.

"Aw hell," I sigh exasperatedly. I open the door and get out. I really don't want to do this, but it's now or never. My life or my job. _Damn you, Falcone! You're making me quit the only job I'll probably ever love._

I manage to take in a cheery tinkling noise as I enter, warm jazz, and see a golden crimson atmosphere before someone seizes my right hand with the force of a small rhino and kisses it heartily, making me look down. A small portly figure. Mr. Sorvino, at his fatherly best.

"Ames, m'dear!" he booms warmly, clasping my fingers classically. "How are you? Are you feeling well now? Oh, how we have missed you these past few nights!"

Damn. He has to make it harder. I try to avoid looking at him so I basically just stare at the top of his balding head. "Um, actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Can we go to your office or wherever?"

He appears a little confused. "Well, fifteen minutes 'til show time. Try to keep it short." Feeling pressured and awful, I follow him back to the dressing room area. Even with darkened surroundings, I try to drink in every detail. Hey, it's probably the last time I'll ever be here.

I do notice he's made some changes and added a few decorations. I see a couple small portraits of white rabbits hanging on the walls. Huh. I guess it's called Wonderland for a reason now. It's oddly disturbing.

Mr. Sorvino enters into a room I've never seen before. It does look like an office, but a tiny one at that. Nothing special, nothing extravagant. Mr. Sorvino leans up against his teeny desk. "What's on your mind, love?"

It would be easier if he just said he hated me.

_Harden yourself. Make it quick._ I pull my gaze from the artistic landscapes and portraits adorning the walls. Nope. Can't use Jonathan's trick of becoming a stone wall. I'd resolved not to cry, but I tear up anyway. Damn.

He waits as I stutter, "I—I…" I can't finish. He taps his fingers against his desk; expression patient, but his eyes keep flicking to the clock on the wall. Then, I blurt it out. "I quit!" I practically sob. And I flee. No explanation, no nothing. I could never have dumped anything on Falcone vocally to someone else. No guts.

No sanity. I rush out into the lukewarm drizzle falling from the gray sky. It's over. All over. But I'm relieved when no one runs out after me. Little speckles of rain form on my wild hair. I tilt my face up, the mistiness cooling my burning cheeks, and breathe out.

I walk out in the middle of the vacant road. And look down the street one way, and then the other. To my left, high-class paradise. To my right, a hellhole. I went aimlessly into that hellhole the other night. And I don't even know why. I feel so defeated. What had I been trying to accomplish? What could I have done for myself? No wonder Jonathan thinks I'm a moron. I _am_ one.

I turn my back on the Narrows and walk back to my truck.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So there's chapter eleven. I have to admit, I hope this one has better reactions than the last one did. It's been…tough. I seem to be spacing out on ****Ames****' character a little. As my dedicated and wonderful reviewer **Silential **so kindly pointed out to me, it IS in ****Ames****' character to be angry with Falcone and the rest of the world, but she is NOT stupid enough to go wandering around the ****Narrows**** with a not-really-defined purpose. I've come to the sudden realization that I agree. For me, it's a little too late to go back and change anything, but I added a few elements to help (which need to be uploaded). Luckily for me, I never really specified where exactly in the ****Narrows ****Ames**** was. So, in my changes, I made sure to mention that she was on the _outskirts_ of the ****Narrows****, not deep into the bottomless pit, not deep into the black, criminal-infested swamp we all know that area is.**

**I hope to God this makes things a little bit better. Thank god for criticism; it helps fix so much! I LOVE IT!**

**Anyway, ****Ames****' pictures' links are up on my profile, in case anyone wants to check it out! **Zetsubel **has finished drawing ****Ames****' picture! I can't wait to see it, and if it's all right, to share it with the rest of you. I sense some form of dedication coming up! :D**

**Question of the Day:** **What is your favorite song at the moment or of all time?**

**Let me know what you think? Please? I'm still open to criticism, and I'll do what I can to appease it. **

**THANKS TO ALL. I LOVE YOU.**


	12. The Bird and the Worm

**A/N: SO SORRY THIS IS A DAY LATE! But it WAS a long chapter. 18 pages in my notebook, for a complete fact. I hope I'm excused.**

**My inspiration for this story has been temporarily renewed! Just thought you all might want to know that. It had left me a few days ago, and then it hit me again. So I'm thankful. I just had no motivation, out of sheer laziness. Wanting to be a sloth is a freaking DISEASE, let me tell you.**

**I have to say that my favorites songs OF ALL TIME are "Major Tom" by Peter Schilling, "The Sounds of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel, "Seven Nation Army" by the White Stripes, "The Times They Are A-Changin'" by Bob Dylan, "Beat the Devil's Tattoo" by the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, "What I've Done" by Linkin Park, and "New Divide" by Linkin Park. My favorite songs AT THE MOMENT are "New Low" and "Busy Bein' Born" by Middle Class Rut, "Bitch Came Back" by Theory of a Deadman, "This Is Gonna Hurt" by Sixx A.M., "Walk" by the Foo Fighters, "The Sheep Song" by the Dresden Dolls, and "The Bird and the Worm" by The Used. Thus the name of this chappy.**

**Thanks to **LittleMissAngel, SilhouetteGypsy, XxKeeperOfDeathxX, Reilaxx, Savage Kill, Starrycat05, Arlena4815162342, Zetsubel, My Purple Skies, SladeRavenFan, Wafia Primo, **and **Comidia Del Arte **for the reviews. I make it a point to respond to reviewers and take suggestions and discuss things with them, so it is in your best interest to stop by. THANKS FOR ADDING ME TO ALERTS AND FAVES!**

**As a result of **LittleMissAngel **being my 100th reviewer, this chapter has been dedicated to her wonderful self. And **Zetsubel** for sending me the picture she drew of ****Ames****!_ Link below (Without spaces)_**

/ zetsubel. deviantart #/ d4hl9np

**Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight, Batman Begins,_ or Jonathan Crane. I don't even own the idea of his grandmother, just her name, "Geraldine". May she forever burn in the fiery pits of Hades XD**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twelve: The Bird and the Worm<strong>

_All alone, he turns to stone_

_While holding his breath half to death._

_Terrified of what's inside, to save his life,_

_He crawls like a worm from a bird._

_Crawls like a worm from a bird._

_**~The Used, The Bird and the Worm**_

* * *

><p>I'm in mourning.<p>

…

Not for any particular reason, other than it's Sunday night and we have to go back to school tomorrow. I've gotten nothing accomplished over the weekend, other than lamenting my loss of a job and cursing Jonathan's name. Exactly why I don't let guys in. The first boy I let into my life, and he insults me, lectures me, and runs away. I must like arguing too much. That was our best form of interaction, by the way. Dispute… Or it had been, anyway.

Weather forecast for my mood this week: cold and cloudy, with a chance of rain and gray skies.

Weather forecast for the actual weather: sunny and warm. At least something's looking up.

I'm lying in bed with my lights on and a notebook propped up against my knees. This weekend, while putting off a job hunt (Mom is still unaware), I'd taken up the habit of doodling idly. It's a sort of stress reliever, but I could explode at any given moment. My poor drawings seem to be reflecting my inner thoughts and turmoil.

A rabbit and a scarecrow. My job and Jonathan. Jonathan and my job. In crappy sketch form.

His rejection hurts; no matter how much I try to not let it bother me. No matter how nonchalant I may appear. It bugs me. I'd actually been stupid enough to believe he'd changed for the better. And now, I can't stop thinking about it. Maybe he's right about my artsy interests. Maybe I'm not as good as I think I am. I'm sure on the fast track to nowhere now, quitting my job, which had been the only thing giving me any experience. Maybe I can't take it anywhere. I'm not good enough, just like he'd said.

Thank you, Johnny Rake, for planting an acidic seed of doubt in my highly-opinionated-of-myself mind.

The job thing with Falcone isn't bothering me as much as it had been yesterday. Losing my job, I mean. Falcone still infuriates me. But I haven't seen him or any of his cronies for a while…and high school is not making anything better. No job, no self-esteem, no life.

Sigh. One more freaking year until graduation. Then I'm gone.

"Ames, we need to talk!" Mom's voice comes from the other side of the door. I have a heart attack; I hadn't heard her come up the stairs! What the heck? And she sounds mad…rare for her. Letting out a groan, I toss my notebook and pencil to the side. I really don't want to talk.

"It's unlocked," I assure her lazily, not going to be the one to open the door and invite her in. I slide down from my reclining position to a lying one, so that my head is resting on my pillow. I've got the sudden urge to clean everything. I need to wash these sheets and crap, as if it would wash away everything that's happened in the past few weeks.

But…I always lock my door. Why had it been unlocked? Had I unconsciously left it so?

As I settle into the more comfortable position, Mom comes into the room, saying, "I know you're not my biggest fan anymore, Ames, but why didn't you tell me you quit your job?"

Instead of answering her, I stare stubbornly at the low ceiling above me and ask _her_ a question instead. "How do you know?"

"Zora called and asked if anything was wrong," she responds bitterly. Mom moves my notebook and pencil aside, keeping her hand on them, before perching on the edge of the bed. "She asked me why you quit your job and I told her you'd never mentioned anything about it to me. It was embarrassing!"

_For you to have a daughter caught in a "lie,"_ I think. "Not my fault," I insist quietly. Mom hasn't become my enemy #1 yet, but…this distance thing won't leave.

"What do you mean it's not your fault?" Mom finally snaps, letting her full irritation slip through at my mouthiness. "_You_ skipped work for two days. _You_ are the one who broke it off. I don't see how it can be anyone's fault but _yours_." I hate it when she's not gentle. "Are you _that_ lazy?" Okay. Uncalled for.

_I can't believe she hasn't guessed it yet,_ I think irritably while trying to swallow down my strong annoyance. She just doesn't understand. I crank my head to the right to look at my mother sharply. She hasn't worked today, so she's wearing jeans and a loose white t-shirt, while her straight, strawberry-blonde hair is pulled back in a short ponytail. Cleaning day. Today had been cleaning day. Yick. But she still looks so young…and pretty. Am I really her daughter? Did she really leave Falcone for my dad to have me? How can I even doubt any of this?

I don't mean to sound so scolding, but it comes out as such anyway. "You're forgetting the threat of a certain Mob boss…" I clench the sheets below me in my fist. "I quit to avoid him."

Mom's expression becomes one of utmost guilt, and I'm forced to turn my eyes to the ceiling again before I start getting any sappy feelings of remorse. I hear her pull my notebook into her lap. I don't want her to touch it, but I resist the urge to twitch for it and let it go instead. "He's ruining our lives, isn't he?" Mom asks me softly. I hear pages being turned…

"My choice. Could've stayed put. Toughed it out." Ya' know, I'm well aware that incomplete sentences aren't grammatically correct. And I'm aware that she's looking through my sketches… Now I feel self-conscious.

"It's still his fault. What could you have done against him? It was safety or your job." Well, I could've fought back, instead of curling up into a little ball and sobbing. The sound of rustling paper fades. "You made the right choice, honey." Now she sees my side.

"Erm, thanks?" Well, what am I supposed to say? Mom's gone from a butt-chewing demon to a sympathetic marshmallow in ten seconds flat. I scratch my nose lazily, still looking at the suddenly interesting ceiling.

Any second now…

"Ames, what are these?" Mom asks confusedly, tapping a notebook page before showing it to me. My sketches of the rabbit and the rather gruesome-looking scarecrow. My job and Jonathan. Jonathan and my job.

But I bite my bottom lip in embarrassment and look up again. "Nothing…" I mumble nonchalantly. At least I hadn't drawn the one of me jabbing Falcone in the ass with a pitchfork. We both hate him, but I'm not sure how well that one would've sat with her. She might have reason to start her worrying up again. I don't have any disorders that I'm aware of, and she knows that, but…still.

Mom scoffs darkly and closes my notebook, throwing it aside again. "Well, at least it's a form of expression other than sitting around brooding all day. It's fine with me."

_Do I really need your permission to draw?_ I sulk angrily. "What else did you need?" is what thankfully comes out of my mouth instead. I don't take well to being grounded.

"No. Your job was the main topic. I'm not going to stick around and talk about _him_." A pause, and suddenly she's trying to connect again. "Ames, I hate that man."

Feeling bad, I finally glance into her shining green eyes and swallow thickly. "Mom, I know—"

She raises her voice to cover mine. "Then don't act like I don't understand what you're going through!" With that last cutting remark, she gets up off the bed to leave.

Despite my hurt and guilty feelings, my rebellion forces me to strike back. "At least you're not the one being _hunted._"

Mom stops in the doorway and turns toward me, pain and shock etched across her face. "What?" she whispers.

Oops. Forgot to mention that bit. I knew I'd been leaving something or another out. _Yup, he's after me,_ is what I might as well have said. I close my eyes at my own stupidity.

"Ames, what did you say?" she insists again, desperately.

I ignore her meanly. She's heard what she needed to hear. I can't possibly explain Falcone's threat any more than I already have. I'd put it plainly enough. The main worry that's been chewing its way at my brain this weekend is the fact that since I've quit my job, Falcone and his men would not hesitate to show up elsewhere. Say, my house. Or someone else's home. They know enough about me to discern who I interact with and therefore who they could threaten. I fold my arms under my head and cross my ankles.

We are all trapped.

When I don't say anything else on the matter, Mom shakily gives up, looks at me one last time, and stumbles out of the doorway, pressing a hand to her forehead. She's scared for me. Who else knows of my predicament? Which wedding clients has she blabbed to? Should I tell anyone else? Would it, in any way, better my protection? I don't see how. More people would get hurt.

An evil thought: maybe he'd assume I was friends with Summer or Destiny and go after them instead… I'm such a good person.

Oh, well. A girl can dream.

* * *

><p><em>And now we are back to the same, old, boring routine,<em> I grumble when I walk through the doors of school on Monday. The same old people are seated at the tables in the same old lunchroom, waiting for class to start. The majority of them are jocks and snobs, I notice. And whispering kicks up when I walk by them to reach the doors leading to the hallway. So Jonathan and I talking after class _did_ spark some more gossip. Charming. Feeling defiant, I openly roll my eyes at them, causing more cocky laughter.

I hate that.

"You look tired, Ames. Did Jonathan keep you up all night?" an obnoxious female voice jeers. I look around to see Summer, draped across Craig's lap. The comment had obviously come from her. Despite my momentary toughness, I blush scarlet anyway, causing even more laughter. If they only knew…not that they need to.

And then, right on cue, I see a familiar, blue-eyed _someone_ stalk rigidly past where I had paused beside the table. He doesn't look at me, but I catch a glimpse of his expression.

He's angry. Furious.

At his appearance, catcalls follow him as he vanished into the hallway. I mange to slip away as well, leaving the kids at the table to high-five each other at their "victory." I emerge into the hallway, doors swinging shut behind me, with just enough time to see Jonathan's sweater-enclothed back disappear around a corner. I briefly consider calling after him or running after him to hunt him down, but I don't. I've done that enough already. For once, however temporarily, he'd let show how much the rumors were bothering him. Or making him mad. Do I need to feel so happy about this? It's his irritation at his previous interaction with me, his frustration at being my neighbor and as a result, me knowing his darkest secrets.

_I'm NOT going to jump your bones!_ I want to yell at him.

"Good neighbors, my ass," I state aloud, and scowl.

I go through my first three classes in a zombie-like trance. Same old, same old. Someone smiles down upon me in Spanish class, however, when I find that Paul is absent and that Kelly doesn't bug me with dumb, unexplainable questions. Maybe this day is starting to look up. Ugh, the human mood is _so_ predictable. Up and down, constantly. No wonder Jonathan wants to study things like that. It'd sure make reading and predicting people easier.

As I stand in the lunchroom at school and frown upon the empty table in front of me with disgusting food clenched between my two tense hands, I finally figure out that Jonathan is damn unpredictable and now seems to be taking whatever measures possible and available to keep away from me. He'd said he wasn't my friend and that we still had reason to speak; he didn't say anything about avoiding me at all costs.

But he'd said that thing about Grandma Crane being under the weather. Maybe he left early to take "care" of her, and maybe I just think the whole world's out to get me.

"Yeah, that's it," I try to convince myself.

I've never heard so much denial in my pitiful life. Had I really been expecting him to show up? So I sit there and ponder, picking at my lunch as I try to sort out my stressed and confused brain. And also my hurt reputation. Even though he may care about his own, the rumors about Jonathan and I aren't bothering me as much as they used to. Just enough to make me flush redder than a radish.

My mind gets even more befuddled when I walk into American History class a few hours later. Jonathan is sitting in his desk, skinny body bent over a book not from this period. His sweater, I notice, is an unfortunate shade of green and does him no favors. Are those navy blue dress pants? They look…bad. But considering his home life, who am I to judge?

Mr. Spade walks in the room a while later and taps my shoulder, seeing that I still haven't seated myself. I bobble my head at him and sit stiffly next to Jonathan, who continues to pretend I don't exist. Well, two can play this game. I'll give him the cold shoulder right back, though it will hurt me more than it'll hurt him… It's just the way the cookie crumbles.

I do notice that sometimes his fingers clench around his pencil more tightly than needed, the graceful knuckles turning a bleached white color, not even contrasting that drastically with his natural skin tone. I also notice that I need to stop staring at Jonathan Crane's fragile hands and focus on the lecture being given, lest I fail the test next week.

But Jonathan _hadn't_ gone home! Why did he skip lunch, for a reason other than avoiding me and the food? Probably avoiding _me._ I guess there really isn't any other logical reason for him. Though he clearly needs lunch.

Crap. Does this also mean that Geraldine is feeling better? I hope not. I've enjoyed my week of peaceful, quiet sleep. Her shrieking will return. Despite his treatment of me, I wish for no more torture (if it really was torture) for Jonathan, please.

I sigh loudly to myself. One more thing to worry about: I need a job, too. I attract a few giggles from the other girls, who obviously think I'm daydreaming about a certain spectacled, arrogant someone of higher intelligence. We'll never be rid of it.

I don't even care anymore.

The ringing of the last bell once again signals the end of the day. Before I can even freaking blink, Jonathan has gathered up his belongings and darted with devious and startling quickness out of the room, almost losing his glasses on the way out the door. He manages to scuttle out sideways, looking like an overlarge, gangly, gawky crab. With owlish glasses. Even though I'm very put out right now, I still stifle a giggle at the mental image worming its way into my head.

"He's out of here fast," I hear Summer mutter behind me.

"He's got something to look forward to later," Destiny cackles in response. They titter together like two annoying birds that I want shot down.

_Go to hell,_ I should tell them.

So much for a confidential conversation. Maybe I'll never have to have another one with him. With the way our relationship is headed, we'll never have one, and I'll never need to worry about it.

The weather outside continues to be nice.

* * *

><p>Tuesday and Wednesday pass in pretty much the same fashion. Giggles, whispers, glares, repeat. Giggles, whispers, glares, repeat. Except, that after Jonathan happens to miss lunch again on Tuesday, I'd used Wednesday's lunch period to do some investigating after I'd finished grossing out over my tray of leftovers. Homemade. <em>Sure.<em>

I had crept to the library, my first selection for his likely location. And had peered through the door's window to see Jonathan seated at one of the tables at the other end of the library. His greasy, chestnut-haired head had shined grossly in the bright lights of the place. You know, for someone who's as much of a perfectionist as he is, you'd think he and his grandmother would force him to take better care of himself. It's not like he _isn't_ bothered by it.

Anyway, the moment I'd seen him in the library, I'd clenched my fists and whispered quite loudly, "Oh, you _bastard!"_ Crane _was_ avoiding me. Part of me had wished he'd been able to hear the name I'd called him through the thick, seemingly bulletproof door. He's on one side; I'm on the other. Seems like things would always be that way for the two of us. I'd walked away, fuming, after that, feeling very discouraged. What's the point?

It's on Thursday, however, that I become Fate's favorite chew toy once again.

I rush outside into the parking lot with a desperate cry. School had been particularly horrible today. And now I keep singing, _Tomorrow's Friday! Tomorrow's Friday! Tomorrow's Friday!_ over and over in my head in an annoying voice. I also can't keep from realizing that Jonathan has succeeded in avoiding me for almost a whole week now.

Thank god for warm weather. Hopefully, we've finally managed to shake off the last dregs of winter. I open the door of my beat up, black truck and collapse into the driver's seat with a sigh a relief. It's so nice today! 70 degrees with a light breeze. I roll down my truck's windows before raking my hands through my crazy hair and pulling it into a messy ponytail.

Time to wait until everyone leaves; it'll be about eight minutes. So I just lean back against my seat. _Jonathan waits, too,_ I muse, seeing him walk past my truck out of the corner of my eye. And…I hate to admit that I've parked closer to his station wagon than I should have.

No wonder he thinks I'm stalking him. Unfortunately, I seem to be drawn to him, like a moth about to be incinerated by a flame. Funny how accurate that is. I drum my fingers against the old, cracked steering wheel, trying not to glare at Crane sitting in his own car at the edge of my peripheral vision. Minutes pass.

I briefly hear a screeching of brakes and a crash before deducing that someone just got sideswiped. Sucker.

Finally, the lot is mostly clear enough to be safe, at least. Sitting up straight, I turn the key in the ignition, hear the engine rev, hear a strangled sputter, and then faithful old Black Jack dies.

Ohmyfreakinggod.

Trembling, numb, and totally freaking out, I try again. "C'mon, buddy. Don't do this!" I wail nervously, turning the key once more. A dry whining is all that answers my heartfelt begging.

Just my luck. Fricking PERFECT!

I whack an angry fist against the steering wheel and hit the horn accidentally. An obnoxious honk echoes throughout the vacant lot, seeming to last longer than usual. But it still makes me jump out of my big-boned skeleton.

Jonathan and a few other stragglers loitering in the parking lot look around for the source of the noise. I shrink down in the driver's seat and stare straight ahead through the windshield, pretending nothing is wrong. To my left, however, I hear Jonathan's clunker start with a rattling noise a few cars down. Then it hits me: Mom's working late, my truck is dead, and Jonathan's _leaving._ My only hope of a ride.

It doesn't matter how much this next move may cost us or how much more it would make him hate me; I'm not walking _through_ the goddamn _Narrows_ to get home. Walking around the edge of them last week is one thing; diving straight into the middle of them is another matter completely. That reason or fear alone is probably the lone, crazy excuse for what I do next.

I throw open my door and abandon my broken truck. With the bright sunshine pounding on my back, I race to Jonathan's car, nearly sprawling out across the pavement in my hurry. In addition, Jonathan's rusty vehicle is backing out, so that when I reach it, he almost backs into _me_.

The brakes squeal with annoyance as he stops just in time to avoiding bowling me over. I slap my hands against the back of the station wagon as it jerks to a stop. I was really just bracing myself. My heart jumps around in my chest and my breath hitches a couple times.

Jonathan Crane almost killed me—flattened me! I could've been road kill…

Still stumbling around, I continue my embarrassed way to the passenger's side. I get cold prickles all over my body as no motion comes from within the car. So I tentatively raise my hand and rap on the dirty window with my shaking knuckles. Argh, he knows it's me. He probably needs to get home. Maybe he'll just ignore me again. Maybe he'll try to run me over once more. Preferable, to what I'm going to be admitting to him and asking him.

Finally, after thirty seconds of stillness, I lean forward and press my arm above the dark window, able to look in enough to see. A while later, I notice the vague outline of a pale, skinny arm reaching across the passenger's seat and grasping the crank by the door handle. Little by little, the window inches down, cracking enough to reveal my face.

The first thing I notice is Jonathan leaning across the seat to stare at me angrily, nothing between us but a semi-open pane of glass. His guard is down again, showing me an expression so positively _livid_ with annoyance and irritation that I literally take a full step backward from the door. Man, I'm not kidding when I say this; those eyes _burn._

I'm going to lose my nerve; I can just _feel_ it.

"Well?" Jonathan snaps, blue orbs flashing dangerously behind his round glasses. "Is there a reason your body was nearly smeared across my rear window?"

I find the courage to peer down at him and scowl a bit shakily. God, my heart is still going! "I'm having a few difficulties." I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, gesturing to my stalled truck. "Black Jack's down, and I need a ride home. I'm _not_ walking; I remember you didn't care much for the idea either, when you got your freakin' _keys_ snatched and returned. By me, by the way." I pause for a breath. Wow, I didn't mean for all that to just come tumbling out of my mouth like that. Stress, anger, and irritation have made me too bold. "So I guess what I mean to ask is…can I get a ride home with you?" I finish rather timidly.

Jonathan's nostrils flare, just slightly. "I have no idea. Can you?"

Grrr…I want to kill him. I frown some more. "Don't get literal with me." Stupid English grammar. I roll my eyes after he doesn't budge an inch. "All right, _fine._ _May_ I get a ride home with you?" I ask nicely in a sarcastic fashion, gritting my teeth.

And still he hesitates! He doesn't even blink. Just remains as unemotional (albeit angry) as a piece of stone. That does it! I reach down and grab the warm door handle, tugging it open. In the interior, Crane's hand grips the groove on the inside of the door, stopping it fast. "I don't think so. Why should I permit you to enter?"

I huff angrily and tighten my hold on chipped metal. Dammit, I wanna go home! "Why wouldn't you? I'm your neighbor and I'm keeping your secrets. Shut up and let me in."

He looks appalled at my authoritative tone but releases the door reluctantly. Perhaps the shock of my forwardness hit him and made him temporarily numb. But at the same time, I'd given the door handle a mighty jerk and had pulled it away from him. Not difficult, considering _his_ lack of strength. The ajar door swings open with a creak, and I uncharacteristically plop myself into the seat.

A cloud of dust emerges from underneath my ass. The interior of his car isn't actually that messy; clean, actually, except for the dust. If that make any sense. And his car just has a car smell. No identifiable odors or anything like that.

Crane has proceeded into reversing again, occasionally glancing over his shoulder as he backs out, fingers tight on the wheel in fury.

I peer at him out of the corner of my left eye. His lips are pressed together curtly, and he seems fed up with my presence in his life and slightly nervous about this whole thing. I'm surprised I'd even had the gall to do it. But I'd needed a ride and I hadn't been planning on staying at the high school overnight.

"Just this one time," I assure him, to break the awkward silence hanging around both our heads. He finally pulls out of the lot.

"The last and only," he agrees. More silence, but I can tell both of us want to fall into an argument. Maybe I'll start one later, if I can't stand the quietness. We both feel ready to rip each other's throats out.

I notice that I've forgotten to buckle my seatbelt and do so. Jonathan's eyes flicker to me briefly, regarding me with scorn. He accelerates to a higher speed as he pulls onto the upper class streets of Gotham. At least our high school is located in a good area. Jonathan is a…careful driver. Still angry, I spend most of our ride in the safe part of the city observing and scrutinizing his driving form. He's one of the meticulous perfectionists, the model driver that should be used as an example in Driver's Education classes. So different from my carefree, lazy style.

I could have never, ever predicted that Jonathan Crane would ever give me a ride _anywhere._ Anyone who'd seen this happen would have some hot news for tomorrow, I guess.

A few minutes later, my irritation with his stony silence persists. So at the next stoplight, I reach over obnoxiously and jingle the keys hanging in the ignition. He sends me a glare strong enough to make corpses roll in their graves. But I go back to pretending nothing had ever happened. I'm not even sure what the purpose of that action had been. I had either wanted to provoke him into a fight or remind him that the girl who returned his keys is currently sitting next to him. "Cool little keychain," I needle him stupidly, trying to suppress all the annoyance in the world. I _do_ like the keychain though. Crane doesn't move; his right eyebrow simply twitches.

God, you can just _feel_ the awkward. And it's fluffy.

I'm going to blow up at any moment.

The tension in the air couldn't be cut by anything other than a chainsaw. I fidget in the cracked seat, my knees bent. It's a pain in the butt, not being able to stretch out your legs. The seat is moved up too far for me, so I feel cramped. But I'm not about to move it up, even if it _can_ move up. This thing is old, and I'm seeing a lot of brown and rust colored things in here. The windshield is also cracked in two places.

_How does Jonathan cope with driving through the Narrows?_ I wonder as I see the familiar dark street through the glass in front of me. We almost need to go straight through the middle of them in order to get to the other side. Little do people know, the operating bridge isn't the only way into the Narrows.

Hmm. No wackos try to throw themselves against_ his_ car as he drives through this place. Still daytime out, but you can never tell here. From how bored Jonathan appears right now, he can probably drive this route while snoring.

After we pass a few more back alleys and broken streetlights, I pick this time to unload on him a little at a time. I bite my thumbnail before stating an obvious observation completely out of nowhere.

"You were very rude to me the other day."

He seems to be ready for it, because without missing a beat, he retorts, "Was I? I can't recall."

"Of course not," I say to myself, but loudly enough that he hears. My eyes perk up as I spot something. "Um, glass in the road ahead—"

He's seen it before I did, his car's headlights illuminating a pile of shining material before it gracefully glides right to avoid the predicament of popped tires. "I know," Crane comments, scowling.

No man likes a woman commenting on his driving in any way, shape, or form.

I give him a hint. "You should apologize," I suggest coolly, clenching my jaw. Orange lights flicker briefly in my window as the rattling car moves along at a cautious pace.

"Is there harm in telling the truth?" he retaliates, checking something in his rearview. Ouch.

Suddenly, I want to scream and cry in frustration. I'm hurt, deeply so. _No one_ picks on my passion and gets away with it! So I guess the only logical thing to do is have a meltdown in Jonathan Crane's car. Let's see how he handles an _uncomposed_ Ames. The atmosphere around us brightens as we exit the Narrows.

I suck in a deep breath, face no doubt turning red. Crane mutters something unintelligible under his breath. I don't catch it, but in my words, it probably would've been something along the lines of, "Oh dear…"

It's amazing how focused Jonathan remains through my semi-shouting fit.

"When are you finally going to get it into your thick head that someone actually _wants_ to be friends with you and get to know you better? I'm not stalking you; I'm not going to jump your bones!" While I smack a fist on my thigh for good measure, I'm mortified that I've actually said that part out loud. But I continue on. "You need to suck it up and put any abuse behind you. Get over it and move on. This is _now_. God, I don't even want to admit it, but I _care_ about you, Jonathan. I want to _know_ you. Why can't you accept that? What's holding you back? What's so off-putting about me? Can't you see that I'm trying to _help?_ It's not like I wanted to at first, but you _changed_ me. You took me off the fast track to nowhere, simply by existing. You didn't do it to me directly, but _you_ are the one who gave me the epiphany I told you about!" What have I just said? I suck in a breath along with my quivering bottom lip, holding back angry tears. Despite hating myself for breaking down in front of him, it feels good to tell him. He could've been my psychiatrist at the moment. I'm wanting—no, yearning—for this to make him understand once and for all. He's been pretty much silent the whole time, simply listening and no doubt laughing at me internally. Eek! Bumpy road much?

But one last sentence for me. "Goddamnit, Jon, I feel like I _owe_ you something."

Jonathan darkens as he makes a sharp turn, drives some more, and brakes sharply, the engine idling. "What did you call me?" he asks softly, dangerously.

I look at him in dazed shock. "Jon?" I repeat softly. Even he has a dark side.

At the mere mention of his shortened name, Crane's eyes narrow and he appears even more annoyed. "I despise that name," he practically seethes. "Do not call me that again." He reaches a short arm across me and opens my door. "Get out."

I gawk at him as my mouth falls open, all anger gone. "B-but we're in the middle of nowhere?" Is he seriously kicking me out on the spot?

He still has goodness in him. "No, Ames. We are at your house. Now get out." That was a fast trip.

I stumble out of the car. "Um, thank you?"

Jonathan's jaw is tight and his eyes scan our surroundings before resting on his house down the road. They freeze, and he murmurs, "Ideal. Grandmother's watching us. Leave, now." Something akin to fear taints his normally smooth tone.

I've got a bad feeling. Frowning, spent, I slam the car door and stand there, watching Jonathan back almost recklessly out of our driveway as he goes home to greet his grandmother. Who is no longer ill. Shit. I shiver in the warm breeze. This _cannot_ be good for him later. According to Crane, Grandma had just seen him giving me a ride home, and I now feel like his future ordeal will be my fault.

Snapping out of it, I decide _not_ to watch him pull up into his driveway, and I enter my house instead. I muse. He'd had no reaction to my breakdown, unlike many men who don't know what to do when a woman cries, but the name thing bugged him. Hell, I'd even impulsively admitted to _caring about him._

Why, oh why, had I called him "Jon"?

* * *

><p>Because of the nice weather tonight, I'd left my window open. I'm lying in bed now, wincing at the commotion across the cornfield like I have done on so many other nights. But their windows are closed, and I can't hear everything being said. Nothing at all, really. Just screeching and garbled shrieking. It's been going on for about an hour, and it's currently ten o'clock.<p>

My heart swells in pity for Jonathan, and I bite my lip, trying to suppress it. Even after all the times he's been arrogant and rude and harsh and blunt, I always seem to return to my goddamn feelings of sympathy. I close my eyes and curse my confused heart and mind. I'm tortured for knowing what goes on in that house.

And then it all stops. All noise, everything, leaving an unsettling stillness. As if it had never existed. I feel my heart seize up when the slam of a door echoes through the night. _This _silence. The awful silence that forces your blood to freeze right in your veins. The horrible, terrible silence that weighs you down as you're filled to the brim with the feeling of absolute dread.

It's stronger than usual. I force myself to lie still as goosebumps break out on my arms and legs.

The silence that lets you know that something is horribly, terribly wrong. I've only heard it from the Cranes' house on one other occasion…right before that funky dream.

Right on cue, a few minutes later, a door slams again. A big, creaking one from the sound of it. And the loud, raucous cawing of the crows begins. No doubt they are circling around that old barn and the lightpost near our house. I'm under the covers, paralyzed with fear for both Jonathan and myself.

_Crows_. God, I hate birds.

But it's such a silly little irrational fear. I take it for a half hour, unable to fall asleep. And surprisingly after that half hour, the loud cawing stops. I breathe deeply for five seconds before curiosity takes over. "Why did they stop?" I ask no one in particular.

Inquisitive and slightly fearful, I crawl out of bed, wearing gray sweatpants and a white cotton tank top, and creep over to the window. And look up.

A horde of crows, more than I've seen around here before, is circling in the sky above the cornfield. I jump back from the window about ten feet, heart thumping erratically. Ew, ew, ew, ew. _Birds,_ man. The cool breeze, in addition to the crows, chills me enough to make me rub my upper arms.

_Silly, little fear,_ I chastise myself. _You're being stupid. What about Jonathan? He's being abused next door, and you've never heard him complain. You need to investigate this! _I'm convinced, but still unbelieving of what I'm about to do. Taking a deep breath, I walk back up to my window, find the grooves in the screen with my fingers, and pop it out. My whole body can fit through it. Remarkably. I observe the gaping space where the screen had been. Different, but I could learn to like it.

Yes, I'm sneaking out to find what's happened to Jonathan. I'm such a crazy girl; the wildest thing I've ever done is attempting to fling a playing card like a throwing knife. And finally, at age seventeen, I'm sneaking out of my house for the very first time.

The tree branch extending from that gnarled trunk is just below my window. I straddle the windowsill carefully before placing, one at a time, my feet onto rough bark. Great, I'm barefoot. At least it's not cold tonight.

Somehow, while groping and swaying and waving my warms and clinging on for dear life (even if it wasn't that much of a drop), I manage to clamber down the knotted tree and touch down to the firm ground. Without thinking or even looking up at the crows/beasties above me, I take off at a dead sprint toward the cornfield, intent on getting into the Cranes' yard. As I run, it hits me that I am very stupid. Running through a cornfield, _barefoot,_ and at _night._ In Gotham. Have I taken leave of my senses again?

I could never have done this before tonight. I think…I'll try their barn first.

I run recklessly into the cornfield, brushing through stalks and long, dead leaves. What's the point of this field being here anyway? No corn left, and it's still standing. Not used for anything, no harvesting. It just sits here. My feet patter over the cracked, dry dirt, and a musty smell fills my nostrils. I cough and slow to a jog, ignoring the wicked stitch in my side. I need to be careful; I'm sure I just passed a dead animal back there. And a leaf could slice open my eyeball. Most likely, I'll step on a rock and take a tumble.

Brushing perished debris and stalks out of my way, I break through the foliage and the smell of dead corn to a clearing with an area of about fifteen feet. Yeah, what I'd said about the crows circling above the field earlier (or what I saw, anyway)…

They are here, all of them. Right. Above my head. I gulp. When I see the cause of all their grouping and noise, I shriek and take a step back, narrowly missing trodding on a stick jutting out of the ground.

"Jesus Christ," I breathe, hands over my heart. A scarecrow. A raggedy old scarecrow mounted on a post, arms spread out and head drooping. It's keeping the crows away from me. The light from our yard outside the cornfield illuminates the thing.

It's very freaky looking. I step closer and peer up at it, heart slowly quieting down. The crows are mad at this thing, but they won't come near it. My eyes move over the scarecrow's face first. Nothing but a patchy burlap sack for a head and face. The eyes and mouth and nose are stitched on rather gruesomely and sloppily. Not a very convincing scarecrow, but it's working.

Straw pokes up from its neck and out the sleeves of the red, plain, long-sleeved and collared shirt. A farmer's shirt, old, faded, withered, and nearly decomposing. Relaxing a bit, I observe the rest of it. Not much. Hole-ridden pants that appear to be ancient, more straw peeping out the legs. Nothing scary, just a creepy scarecrow.

Old as it is, the thing does look like it can get up and walk away. Especially tonight. I shiver and rub my upper arms with stiff hands. But somehow, with the absence of crows near it, I feel a little more secure. Enough adventures for one night; I need to go home, lie in my bed, and pretend that all this was just a bad nightmare.

A caw breaks the eerie silence, and the feeling of absolute dread is back. Shaking my head, I turn to leave.

A soft groan and the sound of heavy breathing stops me in my tracks and makes my breath hitch in my throat. _What now?_ my mind bawls. Please, no rabies-infested night critters. I spin back around. The cawing of the crows grows to a demonic crescendo.

A murder of crows. How appropriate.

Stepping back toward the scarecrow lurking above me, I study it more closely. Somehow, I've missed something. I get nearer and stop dead as I spot a figure huddled under the shadowed part of the scarecrow. I hadn't even thought to search there.

Another groan. I move closer. _No! Run away. Run away!_ I should bolt and quit being dumb.

I should… I should…

It's dark and cooler where I've moved to now. The form in front of me is vaguely human-shaped, so I crouch down timidly, keeping a good amount of space between me and it. _Idiot! It's probably a criminal taking refuge in the middle of nowhere!_ I let out a shuddering breath. "Hello?" I croak. My arms are freezing.

The figure raises its long-haired head. I let out a strangled scream and fall back on my rump, scooting backward.

It's Jonathan.

"Wha-wha-wha-wha-wha—" I stutter. My breathing quickens and my whole face starts trembling. Chin quivering, shock in my eyes…I press a shaking hand to my mouth. I can't seem to stop staring as I sit there, looking at him.

Jonathan is calm, despite his situation. "I would ask what you are doing out here, but because it's _you_, Ames, I won't." He tilts his head up at the night sky.

I'm silent as I take in his condition and appearance in one, nightmarish flash. His glasses are askew, his hair drenched with something (blood?) and falling into his blue eyes. Jonathan's white, collared shirt is in shreds, buttons gone, revealing a scrawny, blood-smeared chest with visible ribs. There are scratches, both shallow and deep, covering his hands, face, neck, chest, and arms. Red, clawlike marks. My eyebrows furrow together as one. There are scratches and cuts aplenty, sure, but the blood (ew) on him isn't all his.

As I shiver and shudder and cry, I remember feeling very self-conscious with my butt planted in the hard dirt. A tank top—a white one. I just _had_ to wear it to bed, didn't I? I'm near to bawling, but I sniffle and gaze at Jonathan with wide eyes. "Wha-what happened?" I ask weakly, horrified.

He sounds so dead, blue eyes _defeated._ It scares me. I've never seen Jonathan look so _defeated._ He's obviously in pain, but remains so matter-of-fact about this unusual situation. He shifts and looks at me again. "Well, Grandmother did see you and I together. And…" he trails off, waiting patiently as I try to piece everything together. He's weak, beaten.

I _cannot_ believe I haven't figured this out before now. What she's been doing to him when she gets super mad. The crows above the barn, the scratches on his face and hands…and I have an inkling about the extra blood on his clothes. But it doesn't explain the awful silence.

"My god," I whisper. "She does that to you? How does she get away with it?" I stop and clench my eyes shut, digging my nails into the hard earth. We have an understanding now; I feel awful for not realizing this situation earlier. I'm such a _moron_. "Jonathan, how do you keep from _screaming?_"

He leans back against the scarecrow's post, shuts his eyes, and straightens his round glasses before observing the crows above him. I know his darkest secret now; he knows it. "Any noise just aggravates them. Though the mouse blood takes care of that aspect." Crane gestures to his sopping hair, thin face shadowed. "They follow me when I come out of the barn, and so I stay here. The scarecrow keeps them away."

It's too much for me to take in. Stupid, natural female weaknesses. Geraldine soaks him in mouse blood, locks him in the old barn with the crows, and then leaves him outside for hours afterward? It's the most nightmarish form of abuse I've ever heard of! That evil, twisted, wicked woman! I spring to my feet, clapping a hand to my mouth, and run back to my house through dead corn, gasping and sobbing the entire way. Little whimpering noises emit from my throat, and I don't even recognize them as belonging to me. I leave Jonathan out there, and I hate myself for it. I've left him all alone.

I'll cry for him later.

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><p><strong>AN: So there you have it! Next chapter is going to feature more of Falcone and a little less of Jonathan, I'm afraid.**

**T****hank you all for your wonderful comments and constructive criticism. It helps a LOT.**

**I want to tell you all that this story is currently sitting at 100 reviews, even though the counter is off (WHO KNOWS WHY?)**

**My birthday is coming up December 6, and I will finally be 18! Lotto tickets, here I come! (jk…) Soooo…..if anyone wants to pop me a private message and wish me a good one, I'd appreciate it. Heh heh.**

**The plotline for _The Dark Knight Rises_ is UP on wikipedia! I'm a little nervous about the story (movie) taking place EIGHT YEARS after _the Dark Knight_ though. EVERYONE MUST GO SEE ****MISSION**** IMPOSSIBLE 4 (six minute intro of _The Dark Knight Rises)_ or SHERLOCK HOLMES: A GAME OF SHADOWS on DECEMBER 16! (for the goddamned theatrical trailer)**

**AAARGH! The wait is too long… :/ **

**Favorite lines? Good stuff? I WANNA KNOW!**

**Question of the Day: What has been your favorite action movie of this year?**


	13. I'm Made of Wax, Larry

**A/N: Just a warning to all, things change quickly between Jonathan and ****Ames**** in the end of this chapter. To truthful, I'm extremely surprised this got uploaded in two week. 26 pages in my notebook, this is the longest chapter yet. I'M SO SORRY!**

**I know there's been some unrest about ****Ames**** leaving Jonathan when she found him that night. From my point of view, this will be a reason for him to hold a grudge when he goes crazy in the future. A sense of revenge against her or something. What could she have done? Let's face it; ****Ames**** is still weak and new to things like this. I'll admit that even I would've been frightened out of my wits at a sight like that. But I can understand where all of you are coming from.**

**I also received a review that made me rethink something that I haven't really explained all that much. Jonathan's acne problem. By acne, I guess I hadn't really clarified. He just has a few dots, a few problem spots. His face doesn't look like a pepperoni pizza. NO OFFENSE MEANT TO ANYONE!**

**As for the question of the day, my favorite action movie this year has to be, without a shadow of a doubt, _Thor._ I'm absolutely in LOVE with Loki and Tom Hiddleston now! I guess _Transformers: Dark of the Moon_ was a worthy watch too. Though ****Michael ****Bay**** had managed to royally piss me off by getting rid of a certain someone…grrrr.**

**Thanks to **LittleMissAngel, Comidia Del Arte, Zetsubel, Silential, SladeRavenFan, thexdarkestxnightsx, Arlena4815162342, ForgetTheFall, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, Thanatos Angelos Girl, **and** My Purple Skies **for the reviews! Thanks to all who added me to faves/alerts!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen: I'm Made of Wax, Larry<strong>

_All I want is a place to call my own,  
><em>

_To mend the hearts of everyone who feels alone._

_Whoa, you know to keep your hopes up high_

_And your head down low._

_**~A Day to Remember, All I Want**_

* * *

><p><em>This is chaos. Mayhem.<em>

Damnit, Scarecrow! I wasn't even sure you really existed until…_ She shakes her head to clear her thoughts and focuses on the task at hand. Scarecrow is gone, tased and in pain somewhere. _Not just Scarecrow,_ she realizes. _Jonathan, too. I have to find him._ She hates herself, hates that she still feels something for the mad doctor. Even after all his betrayal, after all his hate. Does he even feel anything for her? Did he ever?_

Enough,_ she silences her mind. _You're being weak._ She briefly twirls one of her katanas around in her hand, black veil with intricate silver laced through it fluttering against her face. Her strong jaw, stern, full mouth, and the tip of her masculine nose are all that can be seen of her face. The train had been stopped, he was gone, and the Narrows had been closed off. The center of them had not been reached, and now everyone is on the outskirts, trying to get the place back into a state of order._

_The toxin is still in the air, and she hasn't been affected. She is grateful that he had injected her with the antidote a while back._

_Batman was gone. But Gordon had returned, and more reinforcements had arrived. In the hazy air and orange glow, she is doing her best to help. Not good at calming panicking inhabitants, but efficient at subduing the crazed inmates._

_Despite her current status as a "criminal", the GCPD has left her alone, keeping a weary eye on her. They are all on the same team here. Today. She wishes they would realize it all of the time, and not just now. United by a disaster._

They should reconnect the bridge soon,_ she thinks darkly. _We're nearly finished here.

_A disturbance to her right. A dirty man in a bright orange jumpsuit howls like a wolf and rushes her, glass bottle in hand. She sidesteps him and brings the hilt of her sword down on his head. He drops like a bag of rocks. The sound of his grunt echoes, joining the faint shouting and noise in the background. She looks down at his limp form in pitiful disgust. She didn't kill him; killing was reserved for the Mob._

_She notices one of the officers staring at her harder than he should have been. Ignoring him, she debates nudging the criminal off the street with her foot, covered by nothing more than a black leather slip acting as a sole and thick lacing winding its way through her toes up to and around her ankle. She leaves him there in the middle of the road, stepping lightly onto the sidewalk. Raising her toned arms, she slips her two katanas into the twin sheaths strapped to her back. For now, she is sure the danger is past, and she would be quick enough to defend herself without them._

_The officer behind her coughs, and she turns her head to glance at him. Ah. Not an officer, a lieutenant. Gordon. He nods at her, kindly, handsome, lined face showing a form of gratitude. He is a good friend, and many people had once believed they were more than that. How could they think so? Jim is exceedingly loyal, with a wife and children. With his glasses and salt and pepper hair and mustache, he is the father figure she never got to have growing up._

_He doesn't know her true face, but he knows her and has an idea of who she really is. After a while, she finally nods back. Before turning away. Her work here is done. None of the officers chase her down. Perhaps they haven't seen her. Or didn't care._

_Her outfit may have been considered provocative to some. But it was _her._ Better than dressing up as a giant bat, anyway. Her back-laced, black leather corset bared her muscled arms, shoulders, upper back, and just a slit of her abdomen. Long legs encased by leggings stopping above the knee, even though they are occasionally covered by the black skirt slit multiple times in the back and front. The skirt hangs low on her wide hips and stops at a little higher than mid-calf. Brown-black hair is swept off her face and shoulders into a ponytail brushing her lower back._

_Her face, shielded by the veil, is a mystery. No one has ever seen it but her and a select few. And they were gone._

"_Wait, she's leaving! After her!" an authoritative voice shouts. She is generally unconcerned, even though she's been spotted._

_She cranks her head back around and watches as Gordon, still shaken by his incident with the Batmobile, places a stern hand on the stout officer's shoulder, stopping him. "Let her go," he orders him. Gordon looks at her retreating back. "We owe you one, kiddo."_

_She continues on her way, on her search for him. However, after she progresses a ways, Gordon's eyes fall on the flash of the silver ring on her left hand, and he knows. "Sineád!" he calls after her, taking two steps forward. "Hey!"_

_She stops. Listens._

"_Thank you." That's all he needed, willing to say what the other cops would never voice. In that aspect, she and Batman are alike. If she runs into him later, he'll take her away to an institution and drop her off like a Christmas package._

_She carelessly waves over her shoulder, not looking back. "Until next time, Jim."_

_Gordon looks on in amusement and chuckles._

_She continues walking, and the police leave her be. She'll drop any more convicts that make an appearance later on, and so she'll continue to help. There is a cold breeze in the air, but she doesn't feel it as she strolls deeper into the Narrows. Because of the chaos earlier, the streets are cleared. This part, this center, is the darkest of all places. And she's traveled it many times._

_Ignoring the dumpsters swarming with rats, the warrior sticks to the dark back alleys. Not completely black, as the occasional gaslight gives surroundings a foggy glow. No one appears._

_It's quiet. Too quiet. Then again, there is still the melody of screams, moans, and shrieks in the background. More appropriately, things are vacant. Too vacant._

"_Where are you, you bastard?" she murmurs, breaking the emptiness. "I know you're here. Getting tased wouldn't put _you_ out for long." She darts onto an open, more popular and familiar street, heart beating an uneasy rhythm in her chest._

_She encounters and dispatches one more inmate with a loud cry before she hears the shrill whinny of a horse and the clip-clop of hooves moving at a fast pace._

_Knowing who it is with a sick sense of excitement and dread, she breaks into a swift sprint. Her best bet would be to head back to the edge of the Narrows. After a few quick turns, she's on the main street and running past alleys and an abandoned grocery store. She stops, breathing evenly and staring at four—five—no, six—inmates in the middle of the road, crazed by the toxin and seeing her as a minor threat._

"_Great," she comments._

_Sighing, she throws herself into a crouch, hands ready. "Dear, dear." Where were the cops when they were actually needed? She readies herself, fingers nearing the katanas on her back._

_More galloping hooves. A horse leaps over her sleek hair, brushing the top of her head and sending her veil swaying. The brown creature rears up in the air, pawing at imaginary foes. She has the briefest sense that she's encountered the Headless Horseman before snapping herself out of childhood. On its back, a straitjacketed figure. With _the_ burlap mask. How had he learned to ride? And he'd recovered from being tased quicker than expected. In thirty minutes, at least._

_Now that _he's_ here, the inmates of Arkham run away in a blur of orange, with a mixture of shouts and curses, seeing the entities of their worst nightmares. Just like she had once. They are more afraid of him than her. He makes everything Planet Hell._

_We never get a good look at the figure on the beast. Instead, we are focused on the woman, who now carries an expression mixed with relief, disgust, and fear on the lower half of her face. She isn't necessarily afraid of _him_; she was given an antidote once, and as a result, wouldn't be seeing crows anytime soon. He'd been scared of crows once, too. Bats, now. Or Batman._

_While he frightens people away, she climbs to her feet and presses herself against the cracked wall of a house, intending to disappear around the corner into an alleyway._

_She'd been searching for him. So why is she running away? She feels her way along, though she never takes her eyes off him. Perspiration beads on her upper lip._

_In one smooth motion, he dismounts and flings his unfastened straitjacket aside, not having been that far away. And she hasn't made that much progress. Before she knows it, he's got her pinned face first against the wall. "Sineád," he growls. "You shouldn't be here. I told you to stay away."_

"_I didn't listen," she groans, face pressed uncomfortably into unmoving, chipped brick. Her veil is slightly askew, revealing more of her nose._

_Rough burlap presses itself into her exposed neck. "Obviously," he agrees sharply. "I should end you for your disobedience."_

_Chuckling, she tries to flick a foot backward and kick him. He avoids it and leans against her back more heavily, pressing her more thoroughly against the wall and gripping the arms twisted behind her back more tightly. Her entire front is flat against the wall. She can't help but let a small thrill run through her at having his form in so much contact with hers. But she hates him. Despises him. Doesn't she?_

_His cold hands encircle her wrists as his suit jacket rubs against her back. She arches. "Hmmm," she muses, deciding mockery would be the best way of injuring his pride. "It seems we've been in this position before." And suppresses a laugh as he snarls and attempts to put some distance between their bodies. Easier for him now, since he'd shrugged off his restraints. "In your office once. Remember?"_

"_Shut your mouth," he commands her angrily. "I am the Master of Fear."_

"_No shit." He _is_ another person. "Oh, I'm sorry," she retorts boldly. "You never seemed to mind it before. But who am I talking to? Jonathan or Scarecrow?" _

_She loses circulation in her fingers as his hands clamp around her wrists in even more of a death hold. "You know who," he answers. Definitely not him; there are no fluid movements, no cold calculations, no smooth, logical voice._

"_Scarecrow, then." She pauses, allowing this confession to sink in, and tries to adjust herself more comfortably against cold brick. She'll be sore tomorrow. "You know," she breathes, "I hadn't been sure you really existed until you confirmed it a while ago. Before Miss Dawes tased you." Her rich voice treats his situation with bitter humor. "One of your proudest moments…"_

_Multiple personality it is, then. Or is it? What if he simply became another person when the mask was _on_, like she does?_

_He remains silent, hot breath and rough burlap rubbing against the back of her long neck. She can also feel, through the eyeholes of his crude mask, the vivid blue orbs belonging to Jonathan glaring holes into the back of her skull._

"_Even now, I'm not sure," she continues, taunting him. "Then again, it would've been Jonathan who injected me with the antidote and immunity, was it not?"_

"_The fool," he breathes. A dark laugh, and then a delicate finger brushes over the ring on her left hand. "We both gave this to you. We both enjoy you."_

"_Will you just become one person already?" she snaps, patience gone. She balls her left hand into a fist, ready to slug him at any given moment. She HATES him in moments like these. No love here._

_And then she feels the sensation, on the inside crook of her elbow. A cool, freezing sharpness. Moving softly up and down, tormenting her. Now, she's afraid. Where had he pulled a knife from? Unless he'd found it after escaping… If Jonathan couldn't finish the job, Scarecrow could. And most of his problems would be over._

"_Don't you dare—"_

_Apparently, the effects of the fear toxin had worn off him, too. She swears she feels a small incision made. _I'm fucked,_ she thinks gloomily. _Oh, balls.

"_You entertain us._ Sineád." _He hoarsely spits out her alternate name like a curse. "But you are tiring. Is this how you wanted to go?" Was that _blood_ running down her hand?_

_Scarecrow shifts against her. "You and the Batman ruined everything we worked so hard to achieve. You need to learn to_ _do _AS YOU'RE TOLD!"_ he roars. Holding both her arms in one hand, he pins his other across the back of her neck, trapping her more firmly against the wall while bringing the knife to her throat. Despite her efforts, a tear glides out of the corner of her eye. "We _do_ care for you. But it's not enough. No more games," he hisses. Who'd been talking just then?_

I didn't think he had it in him, _she thinks dazedly, panicking. _This is it. It's the end. All over._ She turns her head straight forward and kisses the rough wall. Her breathing comes with some difficulty. "Jonathan," she whispers._

"_Wrong," he growls. "But first, old friend, let's see that face one more time." Fingers drift to the clasp at the back of her head, just under her high ponytail. The veil._

_She would _not_ be made vulnerable. Her fight returns. "No!" she shouts fiercely, and writhes in his hold. Somehow, by some god-given luck, her head knocks against his hand and against his loose grip on the weapon, and it flies out his fingers._

_But before she can do anything to him or fight back any more, his leanly muscled weight disappears. Free, she sinks to the pavement._

"_Should've released her when you had the chance, doctor."_

_That rasping, distorted voice. _He's here,_ she thinks dimly, joyfully, and then irritably._ The Batman._ But she gets very annoyed very quickly. Who asked _him_ to participate? This is _her_ fight after all. Against the man _she_ loved. Or _had_ loved. She finally raises her head to take in the scene before her._

_The caped crusader is holding Scarecrow by the neck. His legs are swinging free, dress shoes barely brushing the sidewalk. This is possible because the villain isn't over six feet tall like the Bat is. As she rises to her feet, fine-boned hands clutch at the gloved ones around a slender throat. The Scarecrow is making gurgling sounds. Somehow, this situation seems all too familiar to him._

Well,_ she muses. _We _were_ on the same team, Bats. But this one's mine.

"_Your reign of terror is over, Scarecrow," Batman growls heroically. She approaches the hero from behind, trying to pinpoint any weak spots. Mainly, any open areas of flesh. Scarecrow spies her and beings to cackle gruffly, despite being strangled. She reaches over her shoulder and draws one katana up from its sheath. Batman, no doubt believing Scarecrow is still under the influence of his own medicine, pays no mind to the laughter. She sighs, spying a spot. Well, his chin. The strong, handsome jaw is the only uncovered area. Her fists wouldn't do much damage, so the sword would have to do. She flips it upside down in her hand so the hilt is facing upward._

"_Sorry," she murmurs quietly. She gets nearer to him with light, silent steps. _He'll definitely have a reason to hunt me now,_ she mourns. Once right behind him, she raps on his black armor with her knuckles. "Hey, you. Don't hate me for this."_

_He turns his head around, shadowed eyes glancing at her in puzzlement. Because both of his hands are otherwise occupied, she takes the opportune moment. And slams the hilt of her sword into his tanned jawbone._

_She doesn't break it, but the blow had been strong enough to distract him and elicit a grunt of discomfort._ Should've gone for the mouth, _she scolds herself grimly. His hold loosens, one hand going to caress the area while Batman stares at her. She still thinks the ears are ridiculous and shrugs at him innocently._

_Being held by only one hand and with Batman distracted, Scarecrow kicks off against Batman's broad chest and manages to squirm away. Amazingly, the horse is up the street, right where he'd left it. He mounts and gallops away, leaving her and Batman facing off._

_She doesn't want a fight with him. She sheathes her sword, backing up and holding up her hands. She looks over Batman's shoulder. "He got away…" Now neither of them would get him._

"_I had him," Batman rasps. "Sineád, why?" His eyes flicker briefly over sections of her bared skin. It's chillier than usual, but she is not shivering. Frustration is evident in his deep eyes and aggressive stance. He takes a step toward her._

_She holds her ground daringly, shaking her head. He won't get her; not tonight. "It's personal. If anyone ends him, it's gonna be me." Does she really want to?_

"_First come, first serve," Batman snaps. Despite his victory tonight, he is in a very bad mood now. He rubs the sore spot on his chin. _I hope that bruises, _she sneers inwardly. Unbelievably, she holds up her left hand, the small, silver-leafed ring glinting in the dim light. His voice and eyes soften. "I see."_

"_I got myself into a mess." She and Batman weren't partners, merely allies. Acquaintances._

_Batman turns to stare down the empty street. She does, too, noticing how his black cape still manages to flap around despite the breeze being very weak. "What are you to him?"_

_She heaves a great sigh, fingering the ring. "Honestly, I don't know." She discreetly tries to step away, knowing very well he can seize her at any given moment._

_He notices. "You're wanted. Let me take you in." But Batman doesn't attempt to nab her._

"_Not a chance, buster," she warns. "We both need a break."_

_And just like Gordon, though with clenched fists, the masked man lets her leave without a fuss. "Some other time," he threatens._

_Well, she owes him something. Rolling her eyes behind her veil, she tells him, "Go home, Batman. You're needed." With a reluctant hand, she lifts the sheer fabric away and shows him a glimpse of her true face._

_Behind the mask, Batman's expression is one of surprise._

* * *

><p>"Oh my bloody God, I think I died and went to hell," I groan upon awakening. Enough with these dreams already! One had been enough. But now an even longer and more intense one? I hate how realistic these seem! What's the story?<p>

Just how screwed up _is_ my brain? Who's Batman? And why did he sound like he was coughing up his vocal cords? Who's this woman? I only recognize her name. _Sineád. _It's what my dad used to call my mom.

Scarecrow. What's Scarecrow? Who's Scarecrow? The only Scarecrow I know is the one out in the cornfield…

I gasp and sit up in bed, looking wildly at my ancient alarm clock across the room.

Ohcrap.

The scarecrow! Jonathan! Had I really left him out there all alone? For hours? It's nearly six in the freaking morning! The crows… I gag. The crows…Geraldine…

Tears well up in my eyes, and I learn forward, touching my forehead to my knees and gripping my hair. I smell the dirt on the fabric of my sweatpants. Even though it's Jonathan, he must've been so scared. The image of his skinny, injured figure huddled under the scarecrow haunts my brain. I slap myself, hard, across the face and collapse back down.

That scarecrow is the only reason this "Scarecrow" person had popped up in my dream. They'd even had the same sack for a head.

_You left him there! You self-absorbed bitch, you abandoned him! He needed you! Moron, idiot. You're just as bad as the rest of them!_ So the mental abuse begins.

I cry as I chew myself out. What could I have done; _what could I have done?_ Brought him back to my goddamn house? Mom had still been awake, doing bills. Plus, she ignores the terrible abuse she hears. And _he_ hadn't been in the right condition to scramble up a tree and through a window. Taking him back home had been out of the question. He should've been fine, right? He's endured it before. _Still, you moron, you could've done something other than run away!_

Crap. I hate myself with a passion.

_Forget the dream. Focus on Jonathan's situation._ Anger boils in me at the mere though of what's been done to him, along with the most incredible feeling of sadness. That witch. That _witch! _How dare she abuse him like this! I immediately spring out of bed and begin pacing, before noticing the window is still open. I stop to slam it shut furiously and resume my frenzied walking, raking twitchy hands though my bed-hair.

I don't care what Jonathan says. _Someone_ has to know. It's the only way I can think of to help him. And…I need to apologize and beg his forgiveness for leaving him like that. I'll always hate myself for it. Cripes, _how_ can I make it up to him?

I moan desperately. Plus, I need a job on top of everything.

* * *

><p>I'm forced to wake about forty-five minutes later for school. Still despising myself, I manage to be grateful for the fact that it's Friday. And the first day of May, so we are finally on our last month of school. Also, come to find out, Mom had arranged her schedule in order to take me to school in Susie. She had also arranged for Black Jack to be picked up, looked at, fixed, and dropped off there by the end of the day. Apparently, one of her clients is a high-class mechanic. So no hitching rides for me today.<p>

I don't know if she's trying to win me over or not.

I also discover, upon entering Gotham High a few hours later, that nothing about Jonathan and I has died off just yet. I guess sleeping together is _nothing_ compared to him giving me a ride home. Especially when it's said I gave him a good time in the car afterward. This is, quite frankly, about the exact opposite of what had actually gone on.

I've got more serious things to worry about than gossip. People will never learn. I simply brush these off as I head to first period and hope that the coming weekend gives the student body a whole new focus. A scandal, a drug bust, a car accident, anything. This is getting old fast. It's almost become a part of my crazy, everyday life. Sadly. The dream is still at the back of my mind.

May 1st today. For the majority of my time, I bite my nails down to the quick as I keep my eyes peeled for Jonathan during breaks between classes. I don't see him; I could almost say he isn't here today. If it weren't for the whisperings and rumors, anyway. Believe me, he's here. Does anyone other than me notice his injuries? Maybe a few; the scratches are said to be inflicted by me in the middle of…well, let's just say my face metamorphosed into a great tomato after hearing that one. Sick, gross, ew… I feel dirty just thinking about it.

Lunch period arrives quickly. I'm getting used to passing the time, I guess. This and American History are actually the two exciting points of my day. Both give me opportunities to interact with Jonathan. Yes, I'd even admitted it to him; I _care_ about him. I'm having less difficulty admitting it than a few weeks ago. This is it; the opportunity to tell Jonathan how sorry I am. For everything. Everything just feels like it's my fault, a result of _my_ actions. I need to beg his forgiveness; maybe if I get up enough guts, I can try to rekindle the awkward sort-friends-not-really situation that he so easily dismissed.

So why am I left scratching my head like a tall monkey? Well, let's say that Jonathan's books are at our table, but Jonathan is not. I know these are his. _Hallucinogens and How They Affect Your Brain_ is on top of the thick pile, and I see his name scrawled out across the top of one of his papers. His homework _and _light reading material? I don't touch it, but sit down at the table anyway, biting my lip.

"I need to see you, Jonathan. Where are you?" I ask the empty air. I spend my time here alone listening to atmospheric gab and lost in my own depressing thoughts of self-hate. It gets to the end of the period and Jonathan doesn't show. Is he in the library again? But why would he leave his books and homework here? Something isn't right. Maybe _she_ came to get him from school.

The bells rings for fourth period, and I'm sick with worry. So, with much difficulty and staggering around, I gather up the volumes and papers in my thick arms. He has to have been taken home. In the hallway, I miraculously manage to open my locker one-handedly without dumping the weighty stack onto one of my large feet. I'll keep these here and safe for the time being. Some part of me knows he won't be returning for them today. Arms shaking, I place his things in my locker. For safekeeping from the bullies.

_Would he have let me hug him last night? Whoa, girl. Don't even go there. You know you wouldn't have done it. All that blood… He looked so…hopeless_. Multiple times during fourth period, I'm forced to paw at my eyes to avoid dripping tears onto my nearly-completed jacket. _Stupid, worthless girl. You are such a child! A coward! Hell, you've got to make it up to him; you know that. I wouldn't be surprised if he holds it against you for the rest of your miserable existence._

I nearly sow my finger twice after that.

Then fifth period: American History. No Jonathan. He _was_ taken home. Without his schoolwork. So guess what I get to do? We even go through a few pages of _The Crucible _today without him. Only a few, though. Mr. Spade really needs to get his shapely butt moving on this if we want to finish the play by the end of the school year.

We get done early and are allowed to have the rest of class time to ourselves. I idly doodle a sloppy scarecrow on my paper before scratching it out quickly. "You're going nuts," I tell myself. Naomi looks at me with a puzzled expression.

When the day finally ends, I go to my locker and scoop up Jonathan's load along with my own with a lot of strain. No one gets the door for me as I leave school, either. There are no gentlemen left in the world. My arms tremble and turn sore a few minutes later. They _hurt._ As I stagger out into the lot, the bright sun blinds me enough to keep me from properly seeing my truck parked close to the building. But I find it eventually.

I feel like a T-Rex with short arms as I try to balance the stack of work and grasp the door handle with a waving hand that's sticking out from under the pile. When I get it open, I dump everything into a disorganized heap in the backseat.

Great. Home delivery, here I come.

I give Black Jack's dented hood a motherly pat before sliding in the driver's seat. Huh, guess I could've cleaned him out a bit. The key is in the ignition, I notice, with a little plastic nametag (reading "Black Jack" in black marker) looped through the keychain. I grin and turn the key, grateful when the truck roars to life instead of perishing on the spot. I breathe a sigh of long awaited relief and actually lean forward to kiss the cracked steering wheel.

I have no idea what had been wrong with the vehicle. And really, I'd be way too dumb to understand it. So I'll leave it be. Mom hadn't been kidding when she mentioned "quick service." Obviously, one of her clients had owed her a favor…

Today, I pass through the Narrows without incident and manage to get down the first gravel road with the grove at its start without fishtailing. You'd think I would've learned to slow down after a while. However, as I take a left onto the road going to our houses, my hands begin to sweat on the steering wheel. Am I really going to do this? Can this count as making it up to Jonathan?

I bypass our driveway and continue down the road. I swallow thickly and notice how nervous (or scared?) I am. The breeze through the window does nothing to cool me down. I'm stupid; dust is flying around the truck's interior. But it had been so nice outside…

Why does the weather always seem to be contradictory to what's going to happen to me?

"Didn't think I'd ever be doing this for him," I mumble as I pull up the Cranes' driveway. I'm crazy; I'm insane. I belong in madhouse. As soon as I park, about halfway up the driveway itself, I decide I've gone far enough and cut the engine. Suddenly, I get an eerie feeling and wish that my truck wasn't so loud, that it didn't positively _roar_ when it was in motion.

It had been so silly of me to believe that Jonathan would be the one to greet me when I arrived.

First thing I do is shake off my nervousness and scramble into the backseat in hopes of sorting our assignments and books out. Why had I jumbled them together? I get organized at one point and exit the vehicle, using my foot to slam the door shut rather loudly, my arms being laden with heavy tomes and papers belonging to Crane. My footsteps crunch across the gravel drive as I nearly tiptoe my way up to the old, big house, painted a cracking, unappealing shade of dark gray. From this distance, I can see that the front door does _not_ have one of those ancient knockers, like I'd expected.

There's a change in texture under my shoes. I look down and realize that the driveway had ended about three feet ago. Normally, you'd walk right onto a sidewalk, but in the Cranes' yard, there is no sidewalk. I'd walked straight onto well-kept grass. That's all that leads up to the house. I hesitantly and stupidly go forward a few steps.

_I'm so dead_, I think about five seconds before it happens.

The front door of the house, a screen door, bangs and clangs open to reveal a wizened old woman standing in the doorway, breathing fire. I'm a little closer than I would've liked to be. It can't be anyone other than Geraldine Crane. And I had just done a fantastic job of alerting her to my presence and royally pissing her off.

We stand there for ten seconds in complete silence, broken by nothing more than the sound of our breathing. And take each other in.

The first thing I notice about Grandmother Crane are her hands. Sharp, shriveled, clawlike hands. Like a crow's feet. To just think on how many times and occasions those have been laid on Jonathan takes the edge off my first initial surprise. Her tall, bent body is completely clothed in black garments: black skirt, black blouse with a high collar. It does nothing for her sunken appearance. The face is the one thing I can't tear my eyes from. The wrinkled skin is stretched so tautly against her cheekbones that it seems skull-like. Her wizened mouth is set in a permanent pucker; the yellowing whites of her eyes seem to glow with an evil of their own. Her thin, silver hair is twisted into a small, gnarled knot at the back of her head.

I realize just how effective the power of fear can be.

Aging had not treated her well. She looks way too old to be only in her eighties. This lady has been abusing Jonathan so terribly? She looks like he could snap her in half if he tried. He _should_ try, by the way; he really hates her. How can someone this weak and frail…? _The power of fear, dear._ I want to throttle sweet old Grandma here.

Unfortunately, in those ten seconds, Geraldine takes me in as well, and recognizes me as…yeah. She screeches and points a twiggy finger at me, eyes widening so I can see the yellow in them extensively. But they are blue, just like Jonathan's. And like her daughter's, I'm assuming. Electric. "YOU!" she howls, shaking in fury. "YOU have been leading Jonathan into sin and temptation!" Closer to her now, I can more easily detect the faint Southern accent tainting her tone.

She's never seen me up close before, so how does she know me? Lucky guess?

I would've laughed if the situation hadn't been so serious. I can see why Jonathan would cower before her; I'm doing it right now and step back cautiously. _The power of fear._ While she shrieks and screams, she seems to grow about five feet taller. Geraldine actually takes a few steps out of the doorway. Everything has turned gray, even though the sun is bright.

I surprise myself by not losing my power of speech. I show her the books and assignments clamped in my arms before weakly explaining, "Jonathan left his homework at school. It's unlike him." It comes out as more of a squeak. Jesus, you do _not_ stand up to her; I see why now. She's just too witchy and horrible. I mentally cuss myself out for my lack of courage. Really, all I want to do is melt into a pile of whimpering goo; she has _that_ much power. I take note of the rosary wrapped around one creaky wrist and the wooden cross necklace around her wrinkled, veiny throat.

I push once more, desperately. "Where's Jonathan?" I ask softly. I expect her to come tottering toward me, brandishing a crucifix.

Her eyes roll back in her head, and gobs of spit fly as she unleashes all of God's or Hell's fury on me. Just one order. One sentence. And it makes me nearly piss myself. Along with that, I also miss my chance to stand up to her.

I want to laugh at her, but can't, and tremble instead.

"GET OFF MY LAWN, YOU SLUT!"

Not anymore.

I don't need to be told twice. The books tumble from my limp arms and onto the lawn, where I don't bother to gather them up again. I bolt for it. She seems like the very stuff of our nightmares. I'm just so…powerless. And disgusted. Has Jonathan been aware of what's happened?

_The power of fear…_

Happy May Day, everyone.

Blubbering, I leap into my truck and slam the door behind me. I shiver violently and haphazardly throw Black Jack into reverse. I never want to see that woman—that miserable witch!—again in my lifetime. What a crone.

As I speedily kick it into high gear and back down the driveway as quickly as possible, I happen to glance up at the house one last time. Just one last time. I couldn't resist. First, I see Grandmother Crane lurch back into the house and slam the door behind her. Secondly, I let my eyes drift to the second story and gasp when I spot Jonathan's surprised, sorry, and yet horrified face in a dingy, dark window. He's seen all.

* * *

><p>Come Sunday afternoon of our wonderful weekend, I'm bored to tears. Apparently, teachers are slackers, too. When things start winding down toward the end of the year, the homework load slowly begins to dwindle. Jonathan has homework simply because he'd left school early; I didn't have any because I'd finished all my <em>tarea<em> in class. Good Lord, being _dead_ would be better than being this bored!

I should be outside singing and talking to myself, but I'm too lazy to lift my ass from the couch I'm planted on. I'm staring at a notebook now. Pointlessly. After a brief sketch of a saturnine scene involving crows, a huddled child, and the ever-present Scarecrow (and throwing it away), I've drawn nothing but the blanks in my brain. What's the point of doodling if you have to _think_ about what you're going to draw?

The only upside to sitting on the couch like a potato is getting to bask in the cozy sunshine coming through the living room window right above you. I tip my head back lazily and cross my ankles. I'd even been daring enough to throw on a pair of loose, blue shorts. And a black t-shirt.

Around three o'clock, Mom pokes her head into the living room, wearing a pair of casual slacks and white blouse. The ends of her short hair have been flipped out softly. She's gorgeous. I look fixedly at the white, lined page before me and draw a harsh "X." "Honey, I need to run to the city and pick up a few things. Need anything?"

"No."

"I'll be home in a few hours then." That's it. Our exchange is brief and seemingly harmless, telling of a connection lost.

I hear the front door slam, the rev of a small engine, and crunching gravel as Mom leaves. For some reason, I'm finally able to draw a picture. I chew on the end of my pencil, gumming up the pink eraser at the end. I go into more details than usual, and before I know it, my wrist is cramping up; I'm getting into drawing this thing _that_ much.

Approximately forty-five minutes pass before I finally run out of steam and expire in my tracks. I lean back against the couch and scrutinize my sketch. It doesn't look half-bad. Certainly not professional, but passable enough to be deemed "good."

A fallen angel being held up by swarms of crows attached to her wrists by fragile strings. Like she's flying. I also have no clue in hell where the inspiration for this one came from. Just like I had no idea where that dream originated from. I need to stop going back to it. _It's just a dream, stupid,_ my mind berates. _Not real; never will be._ How true. It's not my future or anything.

My hearing is better than I thought. Grating gravel and dirt from outside lets me know that a car has just pulled up in our driveway. "Mom's back," I say aloud. But then I frown in confusion. "Wait. She hasn't even been gone for a whole hour yet." No way she's back by now. Then who…?

Okay, I'm curious; I'll admit. Who calls on people on a Sunday afternoon? I mean, we don't have any relatives around here. No one's sent notice of an impending visit. An urgent knocking on our front door causes me to get up from the couch and amble into the kitchen to answer it. But answering the door while home alone in Gotham is something that one simply does not do, especially if you're a young woman. For some reason, my little inner voice warns against it, but I shut the sound out and open the door.

BIG MISTAKE.

"Miss us, doll?" a voice sneers before I'm grabbed by the hair and forced back into the house.

Filled with dread, I glance up fearfully, wrestle away from the grip on my head, and spy a white suit, a smoking cigar, and a fedora. It's all I can do not to go ape-shit.

_Him._ Falcone's brought fewer cronies with him than the last times, but he's also in _my_ house. Against my will.

As the few Mob members force themselves into my home with Falcone at the head, I back up against a counter and bare my teeth at them. _C'mon, girl. Did you really expect them to just let it go? Not notice?_

Clenching his cigar between his teeth, Falcone takes off his fedora and reveals his auburn-haired head. Even in my position, I can still notice he has a few more gray strands than he did a couple weeks ago. I also hate to say that he looks well. I'd been hoping he'd gotten wasted. I'm getting the feeling of defeat again… My defiant expression droops with weariness.

"C'mon, girl! Did ya really expect me to pretend ya never left? That ya never insulted us?" Falcone tuts annoyingly, accent thick and eyes amused. His lined face is full of mockery. He takes two steps at me, flanked by his three even bigger men, all wearing mafia-esque suits. "I'm disappointed, luv. Didn't ya miss us? Believe me, we missed _you._"

"Goddamnit, Falcone, leave me alone!" I snarl, trying to avoid sinking to the floor. They're in my house. They're _in_ my _house!_ How dare they?

"Very clever of you, Ames, to quit yer job like that. To avoid us. Made _our_ job a tad more difficult though. It's something yer father would've done." Falcone reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a revolver. I'm not sure on the make and model here, but it can leave a smoking hole in my head, and that's all that matters. "Give one good reason I shouldn't dust ya right now."

Playtime is over. He hadn't been kidding; Falcone is _mad_. Not tearing my eyes away from the cold barrel of the weapon, I sink into a crouch against the lower cabinets. At least I'm not sprawled across the floor. Yet. Yeesh, I'm in a kitchen, and I'm not even near any weapons. I tremble; I shake. He can shoot me. He can _shoot_ _me_!

"Why you shouldn't? Umm…because your whole plan and concept of revenge will be ruined?" I think harder, more desperately. "Er—Dad wouldn't be here to see it. I'd be dead. Who'd you be punishing then?" I feel more confident. This logic kinda makes sense. "Mom's not here, either," I add. "Won't be back for hours."

Falcone's steel eyes narrow. "Yer lucky we're runnin' on a tight schedule, doll. We decided to drop by and pay ya a quick visit. We don't have time to stick around to wait and see." The henchmen nod proudly.

Why is this revenge so pitted against _me_? Other than trying to take them on at Wonderland, I mean. Everything I've just said is true; he knows it. And it may save my life today, not being the focus of his vendetta. That's not saying he _won't_ make me suffer. "Am I really?" I ask quietly. With a large hand, Falcone disengages and pockets the firearm. I visibly relax.

On a whim, I hack up and hurl a loogie at him, much like I had during one of our first encounters. I miss, but still feel like I've just shortened my life expectancy. I've "pissed on my chips," so to speak.

His mood rapidly changes. Instead of redrawing the gun and blasting me, he eyeballs me and backhands me across the face. On the _same exact spot_ that he had weeks ago. _That _bruise is barely healed over, and now, I'll have a fresh one to add to it. My head snaps sideways with the blow, and my cheek throbs hotly and painfully. Falcone crouches down to my level as I raise a hand to touch the spot. _Must not cry, must not cry, must not cry…_ I bite my lip to hold back the sting of tears, knowing I've just been dealt a tiny punishment in comparison to the one I could've received. I should be grateful that that was all; I could've been massacred in my own kitchen. In my house. Why had I opened that door again?

As he crouches, Falcone's polished shoes squeak against the kitchen tiles. He's always had the uncanny ability to appear taller than he really is. Does he wear elevator shoes, I wonder? His white fedora dangles between his two powerful hands again. To my surprise, Falcone chuckles. "Feisty broad," he comments. "Got it from yer mother."

No family talk. I know our story. I'm only getting one thing out of this experience. Everyone must suffer on this earth. Especially women. Falcone really has a thing for smacking around females. Sexist pig. The father's already been punished, but not to the extreme. It makes sense to him to punish the daughter in addition. But what about the mother?

My earlier prediction turns out to be right. He blows smoke in my face before threatening, "Since harming _you_ isn't doin' squat, how about someone ya feel for?"

My eyes water and burn. I clench my jaw and remain silent. One of the larger, darker-toned henchmen laughs at my discomfort.

"Oh, we keep tabs on ya," Falcone menaces. "Got yerself a little _boyfriend_ now, huh? That Crane kid…he gave ya a lift the other day…" He searches my hurt face for any form of expression.

I force myself to give none, to feel nothing. No panic. What can I do? I brush a few wisps of hair out of my face and peer up at Falcone weakly, fixing a look of absurdity and ridicule on my face. _Oh, Jonathan, as if you don't have enough to worry about. I'm sorry for doing this; I mean nothing by it._ Thank god for acting talents.

"You kidding me? _That_ twerp?" I exclaim loudly. I try to keep from wincing at my slander and bark a laugh instead. I'm rewarded as Falcone rises from his squat and tries to quell the brief flash of surprise that skirts across his stocky features.

"The Roman" indeed.

"_Really_?" he asks sarcastically.

I snort my disdain. "Hey, that ride? I was desperate! That _geek_ isn't fit to lick my shoes." I sound like I'm turning into Destiny or Summer. "What a _dweeb_! He's a complete nerd that no one looks twice at. No one cares if he exists." I clamp my mouth shut. That's all I can really force myself to say about him without ralphing from revulsion. But through my cruel words, hopefully I've given them good enough reason to leave Crane alone.

I want to vomit.

"I see," is what Falcone says. I would say he didn't believe me, if it weren't for the slight disappointment in his voice. FOOLED HIM. Gah, I deserve an Academy Award for this performance, no matter how much it makes me want to scrub out my mouth with lye soap. Ow.

Falcone is even failing to grasp at straws now. He's coming up empty handed. Mainly because, if you truly look at it, I don't associate with anyone else outside of school. There's no one to threaten that he knows of. For once, being a recluse isn't a bad thing. Above me, he taps the end of his cigar and wisps of ash float down before my face to the floor.

I should tell him Geraldine Crane is like a grandmother to me…

_What the hell, girl? Don't go there. Why do you wish death on people? She's evil, but geez!_

Resting my head on my knees, I shut down on the Mob members. You know that after you've encountered them a few times, they really aren't that scary anymore? Must be the initial shock of running into some of the most powerful men in the city. It gets…boring. Because they seem to follow the same routine.

Oh sure, they slap me around some more, but I remain unresponsive, wasting their time. I'll be expecting them to visit more often now. Really. I'm not sure how long their meeting has lasted already.

The big Hispanic goon looks at his watch after I finally lie prostrate on the floor. Not hurt badly, just sore and stunned and trying to remain in a defensive yet defeated pose. "Hey, Boss?" he asks dumbly. "We gotta time frame here. Shouldn't we scat?"

Falcone pauses where he is, bending over me with his shortened cigar between his fingertips. From what I could sense, I think he'd been about to burn my arm with the glowing end of the cigar. It really, really reeks, too. The hard floor presses up into my bruised face. These will leave a few marks.

"Right you are, Javier." He nudges me once with his shoe. I think he wears elevator shoes because he's so short. Never mind that I'm much taller. "Pathetic," he muses, staring down at me. I turn my head to the side in order to watch them leave. "It seems ya lack strength after all." Falcone presses his fedora back on his graying head. "Be seein' ya, doll."

Another near-death experience survived. I let out a breath as the front door slams with their exit. Wonder what they'd driven here? A limo, probably. The vehicle starts outside. And eventually, they're gone.

"Okay. Get up," I instruct myself harshly. "Move it. Don't you dare wallow in self-pity. Move on and live another day. Put it behind you." I tell myself that I'm right. Our generation always pays for the sins of the one before us.

I shed very few tears, but am able to lift myself from the floor and proceed back into the living room and wait for Mom to come home. I smother my fear, my anger. The only way I'm screwed now is that there will be the lingering scent of cigar smoke in the house that I will get my ass ripped for.

"Good riddance," I say.

Mom will never know anything happened. This is my fight.

* * *

><p>I put the encounter with Falcone behind me. I can't afford to dwell on it in school. Also, it's going to happen again in the future. And I'll gain experience from that, too.<p>

I begin to give up all hope of ever talking to Jonathan again. I glimpse him in the hallways, but he vanishes before I can open my mouth to say how-do, before I can utter one word. It's depressing that he doesn't want contact with me after all we've been through. After all I know and after all he's been through. But then again, I can't really blame him.

Tuesday. May 5th. The day that someone finally begins to smile down on me. After not seeing him again during lunch period, I wander over to my locker gloomily when I finish eating. Life seems so meaningless.

A scrap of white catches my eye. My heart thunders with hope.

Daring to be optimistic, I snatch a pencil from the pocket of my camo jacket and stick it into the crack to fish out the folded paper. It's jammed in firmer and deeper than the last one. As I finally extract the slip and unfold it, my hands tremble. _Please…let it be something._ It is.

_I'm sorry you're involved in this. I retract my earlier statement.  
><em>_Thank you for your delivery.  
><em>_JC_

I can't help but reread this again and again, heart slowly calming down. I'm assured. Because of this note, I feel less panicky. It shows that Jonathan still wants to communicate with me. Now, I can't stop a smile from blazing out of my usual worried expression. Why am I so happy? I guess last week was just so in the dumps that anything will make me feel ecstatic. I'm attracting some curious stares and whispers right now, from onlookers in the hallway. The sight of the sharp cursive soothes me.

I ignore them and collapse against my locker, and though it's against my own will, briefly press the note to my chest. I'm filled to the brim with the most powerful, shining feelings of reassurance and…pure relief. Everything will be ok. I feel like glowing.

He's sorry I'm involved now? Hell, I'm sorry he's the one it's happening to. I would prefer it to be anyone but him. He retracts his earlier statement…does that mean he didn't mean what he'd said about my creative abilities? What's changed him? Maybe the knowledge that I have his darkest secret, and that currently, with his grandmother seeing and recognizing me, and me seeing and recognizing her, I'm fully involved and can't get out. He still wants into my head.

_Thank you for your delivery._ Well, I guess he'd seen the whole exchange. I fold my arms and just breathe deeply. Things will be good between us. With knowing this, I can go on for today.

I sit next to Jonathan in American History. Nothing is spoken, but for the first time in a long time, he looks into my eyes. Something unsaid, a promise, is exchanged. His scratches are scabbed over. I give him the barest hint of a nod, and one of those weird, telepathic instances occurs. I care for him. I _care_ for him. I can freely admit it.

The note in the pocket of my high-waisted jeans burns hot against my thigh.

Jonathan avoids me until Thursday, exactly one week after I'd found him in the cornfield. I'm not hurt by this; I'm content. This time, his intention is not to stay away from me. I can feel that he's simply readying himself to face me instead.

Since I've found out about him, I've become aware of certain changes. For the better. My attitude toward Jonathan is different. My view of him…different. All judgment, all prejudice…gone.

Thursday. May 7th. It's the end of school, and I'm loitering in the hallway, chatting amiably with Mr. Spade about our lesson that day. Realizing I've remained in the hallways for more than five minutes, I excuse myself and make my way through them in order to get to my locker. I haven't talked to Crane all week, and I begin to wonder if I ever will. Tomorrow would be the last available day.

"Figures," I sigh to myself.

I get so close, _so close_ to my locker. I'm even in the hall leading to the other hall where those wonderful double-doors (my locker's location) are before I sense a movement out of the corner of my eye. I know who it is before I hear him, so I don't even turn around. I just walk faster. _Him._ He's finally back.

"Hey. Whatcha doin', beautiful?" That bloodcurdling, greasy voice inquires. Paul. The bastard just couldn't stay away, and instead, had to leap out of doorway to hunt me down.

I wanna sock him in the gut. Why is he stalking _me?_ There's a cheerleading competition after school today, so all the cheerleaders had worn their midriff-baring uniforms and short skirts to school today. With those girls so provocatively dressed, why doesn't this creep follow around someone who's actually attractive?

Paul leers at the back of my head as I speed-walk ahead of him and tries to touch my shoulder more than once. "You are so into me, girl. Don't try to hide it," he whines. I shudder and stare ahead, rounding a corner. "We should make brownies tonight. It would be fun! I like your legs, Ames. We're friends, aren't we?" God, I can feel his breath from here!

I can't stand him anymore. "No, Paul. We really aren't. Screw off," I hiss. He doesn't leave, and he tries to walk in front of me to cut me off. I nearly trample him. Darkness emerging again… That yellow hair covering one eye, and his face. So laden with oil and pimples and blackheads that Jonathan's is pure white snow compared to Paul's. Smooth, too. Not even that bad to begin with.

Paul just won't leave.

He laughs, and with him on my tail once again, I approach the set of lockers both mine and Jonathan's belong to. A very infuriating, unusual sight awaits me; even Paul falters and moves, temporarily forgotten, off to the side.

Jonathan's short and lean form is lounging against his locker, weighed down with his usual books. He looks bored to death, more so than usual, eyes closed and a scowl permanently etched across his feminine features. That isn't the unusual sight though. The out-of-the-ordinary thing is that Crane is completely surrounded by the Gotham High cheer squad. As I draw near, I notice Summer and Destiny in the lead, at the head of the pack. Most of the snotty vocal work is coming from them.

My mouth falls open of its own accord. I'm not going to even acknowledge what they're saying to him. Let me say that it's nothing nice. Sick of them and their existence, I stand next to my locker (behind them) and cross my arms. I catch one word, "queer," before I decide to clear my throat loudly.

I swear every one of them is a blonde.

Jonathan is who I look at first. Upon my throat-clearing, his eyes snap open and widen at the sight of me, their pure blue color vibrant even when shrouded with irritation. The squad turns and faces me next, all dressed the same with hair and makeup all completely uniform. No pun intended. Like they're their own little cult.

"What?" Destiny snaps bitchily.

I draw myself up to my full height of five feet, eleven inches. Taller than most of them. "I don't appreciate what you were saying to my friend," I say, deadpan. I can swear I hear Jonathan's sharp, slight intake of breath. "Beat it," I suggest, raising my strong, expressive eyebrows.

Summer is the one who disperses them all. "We're done here. C'mon girls. Leave Ames to her _boy toy._" She flips her ponytail. And to think she had been my best friend at one point. As I glower at them all, they turn as a group and walk through the double-doors, leaving me a path to reach Jonathan. As they saunter away, Paul leers at their perky little bubble butts. Gross.

Staring at the floor, I make my way over to Jonathan, unable to look at his face in my embarrassment. I've defended him in _public_, in front of _people_, for the first time. From what the look on his face had been, I'm sure he hadn't needed help. I reach him and keep my head down, directly in front of him.

"Look at me." His cool, demanding tone forces me to do it. We lock gazes, and he frowns, sensing something is off. He sees past me.

Paul still lingers in the hallway with us, I sense, hoping to catch me sometime soon. Appearing puzzled, disapproving, and annoyed, Crane fixes Paul with his signature death glare and suggests, "Leave." It gives no room for disobedience. Paul snickers at us grossly and zooms off after the cheerleaders. I swear he'll be a pedophile someday.

As Crane turns his attention back to me, I say, soft with relief, "Thank you."

Wearing an oversized black sweater and with his long hair combed into his injured face, Jonathan gives what I'm sure is the equivalent of a shrug. "He isn't my concern."

I gulp. We pick up right where we would've left off if we _had_ been friends. "Umm…did you get your…" I fumble around for words, blushing and biting a nail. _Homework. Assignments._ Christ, it's like talking to someone you've never met before.

"I did," he responds. A beat, and then, "I saw."

Awkward. Like starting over. "Oh," I squeak, remembering the hellish experience with his grandmother. I examine a hangnail currently causing me pain. I get to the point. "Sorry about that."

Behind his glasses, Crane's eyes roll. I can't stop looking at his wounds. "You're apologizing for her behavior. Don't be ridiculous." That's more like him.

_But I need to say sorry for something! This is friggin' crazy!_ I tell him what's been eating at my mind. "No, I'm sorry for leaving you alone last Thursday night. I feel awful, and I need to make it up to you. I meant everything I said on that ride home, by the way."

I'm standing closer to him than needed. His eyes push me away, and he stiffens momentarily as he stares past my head. "Put it out of mind." He's reliving nightmares.

I can see I haven't been forgiven. But that was to be expected. I move from my position in front of him to leaning against the locker next to him and glance at Crane sideways. "Can't," I grunt disgustedly. I keep noticing the deep marks on his face and hands. "Just wondering here, judging by _her_, how many times have you been hit with holy water?" It's half serious, half joking. Mainly to help lighten the mood.

"Too many to count." Jonathan pinches the bridge of his nose between two delicate fingers.

I hadn't really been serious! Stoicism, deadness gone; I'm angry now. I flip myself around and slam my head against the cold, metal locker. I think I see stars.

"I fail to see how causing yourself brain damage will do anything to improve our situation."

I groan and clench a fist. "Jonathan, you can't get through this alone. _Someone_ has to know, damnit! I want to tell, and I think I'm going to!"

His head whips to the side so he can glare through my bones. "You will do no such thing," he states firmly, angrily. "I'll be of age soon. Then I will leave."

_She'll never let him go._ Snorting derisively, I challenge him. "How soon is soon?" I'm getting _so_ frustrated with his secretive stubbornness.

"My birthday is May 9th."

I blink. "Only two days from now," I murmur softly. There's that growing seed of happiness again.

"Precisely." The hallways are lit with the golden glow of the bright sun coming through randomly placed windows. He gestures to the double-doors with one graceful, scratched hand. "Shall we?" he asks coldly, logical tenor giving nothing away.

I flush again. Is he seriously asking me to walk out to the parking lot with him? It's amazing how much learning a person's secret can change them. We stroll together in silence, each contemplating our situations and next actions with five feet of space put between our bodies. We step evenly, together, and I can't help but sneak peeks at him out of the corner of my eye.

He is…not as ugly as I'd used to think him to be. Not really ugly at all. I've barely been aware of the fact that, over the past weeks, his weak acne problem had been diminishing to the point where it was only faintly visible. No, Crane isn't ugly. Just sort of…pretty. Unfortunately, being _that_ kind of attractive for a guy isn't top priority. It makes everyone see you as nothing more than a skinny, freaky teenager. I wonder what he'll be like as an adult. His hair, though unfashionably long and unkept, is thick and richly colored. His eyes, of course, are blue, his cheekbones high. His lips are full, pink, and finely-shaped. Give him different glasses, and maybe someday…I can't believe I'm saying this…he could be a real looker.

Crap, why am I even thinking this way?

"Ahhh," I exhale upon our exiting of the school building and arriving outside into spring air. Crane gives me a funny look once we reach our vehicles, which are parked next to each other once again. Huh. Wonder how that happened? I look on innocently past his suspecting glance.

Even if I can't put it out of my own clingy head, Crane clearly wants to forget that I'd ever found him in the cornfield. Well, if he's willing to put it behind him, so am I. Though I'll always remember it, that nightmarish sight. I shrug out of my large jacket and drape it over my arm as I recline against my black truck. He merely stands straight by his own car.

"I don't like your grandmother," I tell him shortly. "But I've been thinking about one thing from last Thursday."

"Which is?"

"Why don't you like to be called Jon?" I feel like this is a daring question to ask. At the time, I had automatically cut it down, erm, as an affectionate gesture, meaning to reach out to him.

Crane pushes his large glasses up his nose "I disapprove of a good name being shortened without purpose," he explains icily, unrelenting to friendly probing. "It inflicts a sense of familiarity with you that I didn't possess."

Okay, so it was a dumb reason but a reason nonetheless. As I open my mouth to ask this intelligent, mature boy another question, he raises a thin hand and silences me. "Enough inquiries about me," he fairly snaps. "Perhaps it's time I learned about you."

I'm stunned. He _wants_ to know me now? I'm so confused… I hate changing opinions. He keeps his head high in the air and his eyes fixed on me. "That boy in the hall. What is his name?" Why does he care? Why does he want to know? He seems suspicious.

"Paul," I croak, scowling at the mere mention of the slimy git. As if speaking his name could summon him. Like Bloody Mary. Or so I've heard.

Crane nods and stores this information away. We are the only people left in the parking lot. "That's it. What is your relationship with him? Why was he following you? This is not the first time."

I turn red again, heated. If I didn't know any better, I would say Crane was acting possessive. A cool breeze plays across my face. I can't tell him about Paul's stalking. "Nothing—"

"A lie," he cuts me off. "I know nothing about you. On Sunday I saw a white limousine in your driveway. Who was visiting?"

Is this the freaking Spanish Inquisition?

_Falcone,_ I answer silently. But I won't say anything about _that_ especially. Yet. I drum my knuckles against my Black Jack's hood. Jonathan's doing his psychiatrist trick-thing again. "Nobody—"

"Another lie." I fall silent and hang my head as he analyzes and judges me. "What are you hiding, I wonder? I admit that I'm curious." A few heartbeats of silence. "You said you'd tell me a story sometime. I'm waiting." Jonathan walks toward me with three deliberate steps.

I feel trapped, so I must pick one or the other to distract him. "No. Not yet. But I'll tell you another one." And with that, against my better judgment, I jump into a story about the problem of Paul. I'll save Falcone for another day. I can't believe I actually want to tell him that one. I don't give Crane every detail while I speak, but enough to make me feel uncomfortable just telling him about the experiences.

Jonathan's gaze draws closer as I recall Paul's last few appearances, including the one today. I finish, surprised to find that Crane has closed the distance between our vehicles and is standing two feet from me.

His eyes flash dangerously. "Disgusting," he mutters to himself, folding his arms with a look of complete disdain on his face.

I turn and face him, hit with a crazy idea. Dunno if it'll work, but… "Okay, enough. I know your secret and now you know one of mine. Can we try this thing again?"

Crane frowns. "Beg pardon?" Too sudden, too soon.

He doesn't know what I mean until I stick out my hand for a shake. I'm so weary now. He needs all the support he can get. "We real this time?"

He gets it, finally, and eyes my hand like it has gangrene. He pauses, too long for my liking.

"Look," I explode, lurching forward to invade his personal space. "We're in this together now, whether you like it or not. I'll be your support. Suck it up and take my hand." I stare him down.

Crane raises an eyebrow and hesitantly grasps the appendage being offered, stiff and unwilling, but determined. He understands that I'm right. "A fair warning to you. I haven't had a 'friend' before. This will be more difficult than the last time."

I break out into a timid smile and chuckle. "There is no word for what we are, Jonathan. We are simply _here._" I keep his cold hand reassuringly, but a bit longer than necessary. For someone who doesn't like being touched by anyone at all, I'm surprised he allows me to hold on. Just briefly. Heck, I've surprised myself. One step closer to making this world a better place. He pulls back uncomfortably after only five seconds. I've definitely done something to ruffle his feathers. Even if Crane only lives in his house for two more days, I'll be there to help him.

And in that moment, I know everything will be all right.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Alas, we move away from all the doom and gloom and end on a high note.**

**So I had a funky experience during a school project because of this story. We're currently reading a book in English class that takes place in the 1920s. The project is having to pick a personality from that era. I did the mobster Al Capone. After typing out and cutting out his finalized facts, I reread one and realized with horror that at one point I had inserted "Falcone" instead of "Capone." So I had to NOT include that one fact. I was too lazy to retype it.**

**Who went to _Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows_ JUST because of _The Dark Knight Rises_ trailer? I'm so pumped to see it tomorrow (Friday, the 16th)!**

**Question of the Day: What is your favorite television series?**

**Any fans of _The Great Gatsby_** **out there? A very heartbreaking and good read. Ready for the new movie next December? I'm so excited to see Leo as Gatsby :D**

**Reviews are like a drug to me.**


	14. Sour Grapes

**A/N: A MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS TO ALL!**

**I LOVE TOM HIDDLESTON! Gah, just thought I'd gush about him quick. What a beautiful, intelligent, kind man... Can you believe he put on 20 or more pounds of muscle for _Thor? _Suits him well, dontcha think? But they made him lose it all. He tried out for that part first, and did a screen test. But then was cast as Loki. I'm glad ;) SO perfect. Can't wait to see _The Deep, Blue Sea!_**

**I've been feeling incredibly lazy lately. What the heck is Christmas vacation _doing_ to me?**

**So as you can all see, this chapter is quite a bit shorter than the others. I thought I'd give you a break. Because the next few, I can feel, are going to be LONG. This is really more of a FILLER chapter, I'll just say that right now.**

**Secondly, my reaction to _The Dark Knight Rises _theatrical trailer. Let's just say, when it came on in theaters (the LAST one shown; I was getting all jumpy for a while), I started shaking. Then I put both hands over my mouth and bawled like a baby. And it continued for about three minutes afterward.**

**My favorite TV series have got to be Walking Dead, Heroes, Batman: The Animated Series, LOST, American Horror Story, and Teen Titans. Plus a dozen other I can't think of at the moment.**

**Thanks to **gunBunny, Poekie, thexdarkestxnightsx, NikonFit, AylaAbbs, vampheart410, itspeanutbutterjellytimex3, pourquoibella, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, Silential, Arlena4815162342, LittleMissAngel, Comidia Del Arte, **and** Wafia Primo **for the reviews! THANKS FOR ADDING TO FAVES/ALERTS! :D**

**Okay, on to the story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Goddamnit! Give me a break and go take a nap. Maybe I should take one so I own things in my dreams.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen: Sour Grapes<strong>

_Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call._

_Don't stand in the doorway, don't block up the hall._

_For he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled._

_There's a battle outside ragin'._

_It'll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls._

_For the times, they are a-changin'._

_**~Bob Dylan, The Times They Are A-Changin'**_

* * *

><p>A dream for the third night in a row. But unlike the two before it, this is a bad one.<p>

I wake up shrieking and batting at the air to fend off my invisible assailants. I try to collect my breathing, to regulate it. Like all dreams do, this one fades fast, and I can only remember bits and pieces. Just _one_ bit, really. _Crows._ My main concern. Attacking me, pecking at my…scratching at my…

I shiver, sweating, and sit up in bed as I try to settle down. _No birds, _I assure myself. No nightmarish beasties intent on haunting my dreamworld. Nothing. Okay. I believe it now.

But I'm unable to go back to sleep. My alarm clock tells me that it's four in the morning. Groaning, I heave my carcass out of bed and wobble over to the desk in the corner of the bedroom. I don't even know what I'm doing yet; I'm not planning on sketching to calm myself. But I flip on the lamp with the easily-flammable shade. The shade is a dusty crème color with two large brown burns forming from the inside out, consequences of leaving the lamp on all night a couple times. Years ago.

I sit down and rip a sheet of paper out of nearby notebook, grabbing a pencil after that. I'm not drawing, but this has been nagging at my mind for weeks. I had used to do it so often.

Even though I'm pretty sure he doesn't receive them, I'm going to write a letter to my father. Who I haven't seen in six—no, five and a half—years. I'd been putting this off for weeks. Falcone has been affecting me, even though I'm not entirely aware of it.

Damn, I suck.

I can't think of anything to put down as I rap the yellow pencil against the desk. Nothing other than what's been going on. Everyone knows my dad's in Arkham, but they don't know how or for what reason. They just think he's some crazy fruit-loop, a murderous nut. And I'm shocked people don't think I'm one, too. Genetics, baby.

_My dear father…_

He won't be getting this, so I use it as a vent and put down _everything._ Falcone, Geraldine, Jonathan, rumors, my job, crows, even _The Crucible_, my confused feelings, and getting ready for the summer. The spring concert… Anything I can think of. It passes time, and I eventually sit back in the creaky folding chair. I've filled up two pages of notebook paper with my letter, front and back.

I fold the sheets neatly together with care, in half, and set them aside. I'll get an envelope later and mail it off today. Today… I frown and walk back over to my bed. Today… Today is Saturday.

May 9th.

Jonathan's birthday. He's eighteen. And I've just given myself an activity to accomplish later. I'm going to buy him a birthday present. It's bizarre.

I smile dumbly and lie back down. Now I can put myself to sleep thinking of a potential gift. I suppose a book would be my safest bet. A psychology book. Looks like I'll be making a trip to the city. The bookstore, Books & Beans. It also contains a small coffee shop of sorts.

Renewing our semi-friendship on Thursday had led to a better Friday. Especially over lunch, when we'd been able to speak more freely. In addition to the gift floating around in my head, I recall one of the conversations held at our table.

"_Why were you so off-put by me?"_

"_I suppose I could ask the same."_

I'd brought up the topic of his intelligence level, which he hadn't been all that uncomfortable with talking about. Rather prideful of it, really. I'd tried not to let it bug me. I'd explained to Jonathan why we'd avoided him and teased him as a child. He'd tensed noticeably when that had been brought up. But we'd bypassed it. I couldn't have helped but notice that he'd never answered my part to the question. We'd evened things out at one point; I'd called him an Einstein with worse hair, he'd called me a starstruck little girl...but it had been in jest, easy banter. Also known as progress.

I fall into sleep after my mind is positively overwhelmed by all the notions running circles around my brain. Too many concepts to grasp, so little time.

Mom wakes me up five hours later with a whole lot of difficulty and persuading. I nearly nail her in the face as I blindly lash out with a kicking leg. All I want to do is groan and ram a pillow down over my head. I'm sleep-deprived, with an awful habit of waking up in the middle of the night. It's too early.

I reclaim my sense enough to remember that Mom has chosen to help a client this Saturday of all Saturdays. I would hate to have a job as a wedding planner, just to put it out there. I shouldn't say anything, though, because I'm obviously out of work. And short of _money._ Well, shit. I'm a genius for remembering this. Mom leaves the room.

Throwing off my tangled covers, I spring from the bed and chase Mom down on the stairs. I clear my throat, trying to ignore my current head rush, and timidly ask, "Can I have a twenty?" I can't look her in the face.

Mom sighs, and I hear the tell-tale _snick! _as she undoes the clasp on her fancy purse. Why do we always get this strong feeling of guilt when asking parents for cash? I'd like to know. "Here." She offers it to me coldly and doesn't even ask what it's being used for.

I mumble my thanks and snatch the crisp twenty-dollar-bill from her manicured hand and disappear back into my hidey-hole. And there I stay to avoid awkward confrontations until I hear her Buick pull out of the driveway. Finally, I decided that it's safe to come back downstairs.

Now what I'm hoping for is no surprise visits.

I decide that noon would a fantastic time to head into town. Of course, lunch hour, so everyone will be rushing to eat and the streets will be loaded with expensive cars, bad-tempered drivers, and innocent pedestrians getting smeared across the road. Charming. Not really my cup of tea.

"I have no life," I announce after deciding to lounge around in front of the television for the next few hours to pass time. As much as I hate the stuff, I miss homework because it actually gave me something to _do._

Hitting the weather channels is my first brain-draining activity. I watch the weatherman in horror as he announces that the weather will be going downhill _fast_. We are in the goddamn month of _May,_ and it's going to be cloudy and 30 degrees this upcoming week? What the heck's wrong with our atmosphere?

I'm discontented as the overly handsome man in the navy suit in front of me parades around and spouts off about weather patterns and how in Gotham, sometimes spring is colder and sometimes it's hotter. Blah-blah-blah. Yadda-yadda-yadda. This is doing nothing for my mood.

I find some cheesy, corny old horror movie instead, on a random channel. I grimace at the sappy dialogue, the abundant peep show, the obvious dangers. It's _these_ kinds of movies that make me want to scream, "Run, _BITCH!"_ at the main heroine when she has the monster/ghost/thing floating over her head without realizing it.

Why do the dumb blondes (who can't act and have larger-than-life breasts) always run upstairs and into a secluded room? You are _supposed_ to run outside! For help. And when you hear a frightening noise, do _not_ go investigate it. Run the opposite way. Yeesh, this is insulting to the female race!

I watch another victim run away at a dead sprint from her attacker and then observe how the creature simply _walks_ after her and catches up a minute later. I snort with laughter at the girl's demise.

And they call this the climax of the movie.

"You've got to be kidding me," I remark loudly as someone falls from a window and supposedly goes splat. Heh. No blood. These things aren't even scary; it's why I watch and laugh at them. The entire awfulness keeps the movie from being frightening. Monsters that look like puppets with bad makeup jobs and prosthetics. Atrocious acting. I hope I'm never stuck there someday.

"No, Billy! Don't die!" a girl tearfully wails helplessly over the boyfriend cradled in her lap. I missed it, but I'm betting he sacrificed himself to save her. Which would NEVER happen in real life. Men are selfish bastards.

I can already see how this ends. She'll find some ingenious way to stop the villain and save the world. _Give me a break,_ I think, crossing my legs. Logically, if you've got brains as small as hers, there's no way she can be a hero and save the day. The blonde bombshell onscreen wipes her tears away (her makeup remains flawless) and stands up in her kitten heels and jean miniskirt bravely.

I gag, sick. Deciding I've had enough, I go upstairs to change my clothes for the day, and I leave for the bookstore a half hour earlier than anticipated.

Traffic isn't horrible for it being lunch hour in the city. Maybe because Black Jack is so huge and scrappy and tough-looking that people stay out of his way. I can crush them like pop cans in their tiny sleek cars. Air courses through the truck. It's not cold enough for a heater, but it's not warm enough to roll down a window or flip on the air conditioning. So I make due with the window being open. My own breath chills me, but I can still sweat. I hate uncertain temperatures in general.

I pull onto the street Wonderland is on and keep my eyes trained on the road as I drive by the location of my previous employment. My main focus is the bookstore here. It's on the same street, but I need to go through a few more stoplights to get there. I do, avoiding the worst traffic problems, and find the store snuggled between a thrift shop and a record joint. Books & Beans.

"Here we go," I say loudly, and cut the engine. I stuff the keys into the pocket of my heavier coat and exit the truck. I'm in a better part of Gotham here. There's even a change in air quality. Same dirty smokiness, but cleaner, somehow. There's also the tang of some perfumy scents and the sweet aroma of baking bread coming from a bakery nearby. Not bad. Maybe I'll check it out later.

Entering the bookstore actually reminds me of how comfy the place is. Just from memory. The wonderful smell of coffee on one side of the store, rich wooden shelves loaded with tomes of all kinds of books on the other. They're actually divided into sections. I spot something new; a reading area has been added, warmly lit and containing two old leather armchairs. It's not much, but it's something.

I walk past the counter, noting a woman with white-blonde hair standing at it. Her curvaceous body is bent toward the cashier, who doesn't tear his eyes away from her to greet his brand new customer. I scowl at the twenty-something-year-old man who appears fifteen.

"Of course, but I don't need help finding anything," I gripe as I head off to the books. Screw you, man.

Each shelf is about six feet tall, an inch taller than me, so I obviously don't need assistance in retrieving anything. But the tops of them are decorated with porcelain figurines and other antiques, so I gaze at them all instead of picking out a book.

I spend about fifteen minutes of my time completely off-track. Reminding myself of my mission, I tear my eyes away from a decorative doo-dad and continue my hunt for the perfect psychology book. Preferably on a topic he doesn't have. No one assists me as I walk through the unorganized sections. _At least I'm in the right genre_, I think as I browse up and down the shelves.

I find the book completely by chance. Plain, with a bronze script on the spine. But it stands out. _The Psychology of Fear_ by Carl G. Jung. It's perfect. I smile and hug the book to my chest after joyfully pulling it off the shelf. $13.96. Not a bad price for a birthday present. As a plus, I think it's something Jonathan could get into. I flip it open to a random page. Holy cow, this thing is thick. The text is smaller than that of a Bible, and it fills the entire (large) expanse of the page to boot. So as I am, I make no blessed attempt to read any further than the title page.

The blonde woman is still at the counter when I get there, chatting, so I wait for exactly five minutes. The cashier stares at her in the manner of an entranced zombie. The position of the woman's body suggest why. _Cleavage…_

I clear my throat nervously with the twenty clenched in my tight fist. My patience is at its end. I hate to do this. "Excuse me, but I need to check out. Could you—?"

The rest of my sentence dies as the woman (who's around my height) turns around. I almost drop to the floor.

The face of Veronica Lake. Red lips. Eyes the color of ashy smoke. That fluffy, white-blonde hair.

Grand. I've just interrupted the conversation of Sarah Garland. And she hasn't changed a bit since I saw her last.

My first thought: _Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Ames, you moron!_

My second thought: _Wait, Sarah Garland…in a bookstore? Oh, wait. She was flirting with the cashier guy. Gotcha._

And the worst part of it all? She _recognizes_ me.

"Well, well. Ames Manson," she croons delicately, looking at me in the manner of someone watching a particularly loathsome creature as it crawls out from under a rock. From her pissed off casualness, she may as well be holding a long cigarette.

I find myself unable to respond, still reeling from the shock of seeing her somewhere that _wasn't_ on a stage. And from the fact that I haven't heard her actually _speak_ before; just sing, and that had sounded sultry. Her speaking voice was the opposite. One of those girly voices, too perfect. It sounds like gumdrops. I don't even know what gumdrops sound like. But it gives me the oddest sensation of wanting to puke. For someone who's nearly thirty, she sounds like a sexy teenage cheerleader. Hell, she probably _was_ one. And Homecoming Queen.

We don't speak anymore. More like I decide it's a good time to shut off all conversation with her, because I'm incredibly intimidated. Her long, red coat swishes gracefully with her steps as she moves aside and allows me to check out. But I feel her scrutinizing me the whole time. Sizing me up. No taunts for me, no nothing. However, Sarah manages to maintain her air of superiority as I hand over the book to the irritated cashier.

_Sorry I interrupted your happy time,_ I silently mock as I pass over the cash and get my change.

The man dismisses me with a tight-lipped smile. "Have a nice day," he tells me. I believe he really means, "Eat shit and die." From his scathing tone, he wants me to jump in front of a bus.

I grab the small plastic bag and leave him to his flirting. _So sad,_ I think when I exit the store. Sarah watches me go before returning to her previous task.

The comforting smell of coffee evaporates as I enter back into the heavy, muggy air. It's suffocating; I can literally _feel_ it pooling up in my lungs. Breathing here is no different than smoking. But I'm not quite ready to go back to my truck yet, so I walk up the sidewalk a ways.

The wind has icy teeth. It bites.

"What the heck?" I sulk angrily. "It's freaking _May! _Why the hell is it so cold?" I continue to grouse as I pass a few alleyways. I'm not in the Narrows, thank goodness. The most I'd have to worry about are stray dogs.

Even so, I get that terrible, awful feeling of being watched. Just like that, up ahead, I spot a shady-looking man in a fedora leaning against a building. And, like the smart girl I am, my steps slow, and I turn and head back the way I came. Falcone has eyes everywhere. My heart thuds.

I'm glad to find solace and warmth in my truck's interior. I sit there and breathe onto my hands for a few minutes before starting it up. The smell of my peach air freshener is so familiar as I throw Black Jack into reverse and pull out. I spare the package in the passenger's seat a quick glance. When I think about it, I get the nice feeling of…rightness.

"You're perfect," I tell the gift as I drive up the street.

_And now I'm talking to packages… _I privately mourn my sanity.

I pass by Wonderland, and something I had completely forgotten about pushes its eager way back into my head. The concert. _Wicked Game._ My song. I've done nothing about it. Crap. I'm officially a forgetful douche.

I slam on the brakes and my truck comes to a screeching halt, and I throw it in reverse so I can pull into a parking space. It's the afternoon…on a Saturday…the band should be here practicing before they start tonight. I can only just see the faint lights of the stage through the door's glass.

The bell above the door tinkles merrily as I enter into the crimson warmth. I hate to admit it, but I _do_ miss this place. A little. Nothing has changed much, except for a few more pictures of white rabbits on the walls. Why does Mr. Sorvino have a fascination with rabbits all of the sudden? _Speaking of which, I don't think he's here today._

I guess I would've been tackled already.

For a false sense of security, I pull my coat more tightly against myself. I weave through the tables and spot the band taking a break by the stage. A few of the members are chugging water; others are chatting and some have looked up at the sound of the bell. The jazz instruments are set up on the stage.

As I wince in discomfort and stride up to them, I identify one familiar-looking guy as the lead guitarist. "Hey, you!" I call out nervously.

"Don Convoy," the blonde man answers with a faint scowl. "So, Ames. How've you been?" Huh. He actually remembers me. His eyes stray to the hand-shaped bruise on my cheek, and I absently cover it with my fingers. Yes, I've been doing very well.

I get down to business. "Don. Right. Well, I have a favor to ask." I take a breath. "I've got a school concert coming up, and I need you guys to back me." I try not to sound too insistent. He suddenly seems friendlier.

"We liked you when you were here, Ames. That's why I'm considering it." He has a pleasant voice. I scuff my sneaker along the smooth gold carpet. "What's the song?" Don asks after a lengthy pause.

I look up at his rugged face with an expression of doubtful hope. Some of the other guys are now paying attention. I blink sheepishly, surprised. "Oh! Um, Chris Issack's 'Wicked Game.'"

Don nods his shaggy-haired head in approval. "Good song. When's the concert?"

I suppose he would need all this information. "A week from this upcoming Wednesday. Last day of school. It's the 20th, I think." I'm not too familiar with this fellow, but I've been onstage with him plenty of times. "Sorry, it feels kinda awkward asking you to do this."

Don holds up a hand. "We'll do it. It shouldn't feel strange, Manson. You wouldn't quit for no good reason. No one but Mr. Sorvino was offended when you walked out." Okay, bringing back unpleasant memories…

I fight the odd urge to hug this Don and jump around for joy. To top it all off, it feels as if the rabbits on the walls are watching me. I'm so grateful it hurts, but I try to maintain an even tone. "Thanks a bunch. You all rock." I smile and bob my head.

"Any plans? Specifications? We know the tune," another member adds and asks.

I reach across my body and grab my arm. This still feels weird. "Well, you know me. The song's too lazy, too relaxing. It's nice, but it needs to be more upbeat. The times for practice that could work would be…"

I eventually sit down at one of the tables (avoiding dangling lamps) as we all discuss this further. They've got the unruly look of excitement in their eyes, as if I've just rekindled a life of sorts. Maybe they actually missed this with me. I'm even offered a bottle of water, which I turn down.

We make practice plans and throw around dates until about twenty minutes later, when Don finally looks at his watch and interrupts. "Hey. Sorry to do this, but we need to get back to practice, guys."

I stand up. "I'll leave you be. Next Tuesday at five?" Hey, I can talk to people when the occasion calls for it.

Don nods as the members begin to assemble themselves onstage. "Yep. See ya then."

"Mm-hmm. Thanks again." I offer one last stilted smile before heading back to the door. It may have seemed comfy-cozy, but this whole thing is unbelievably strange. I'll actually be glad when it's over. Lot of work ahead. My footsteps still seem to echo oddly around the carpeted floor.

Behind me, from the stage, I hear one of the guys comment, "I don't care if she's seven years younger than me. She's cute."

"Shut up, Ronald," Don mutters.

I leave the building and squash my stupid grin with self-esteem issues.

On the drive home, I keep tossing my gaze to the passenger's seat, almost obsessively, like I'm trying to reassure myself that the gift is still there. I'm feeling an unnatural sense of excitement tingling on all my nerve endings. Buying a birthday present for Jonathan Crane…I never would've thought.

With the knowledge that I have some plans and organization scheduled for next week, I'm able to put worrisome things aside to try to find a box and wrapping for Crane's gift once I get home. I tear the house to shreds in my desperate search. After a half hour, I manage to come up with a rather large shoebox from Mom's room and settle for a few newspapers I'd found hiding in the corner of the living room.

I gingerly unfold one and stare at the black-and-white photograph on the front page. The humorless face of Commissioner Loeb stares back at me. I hurriedly fold it the other way with a twitch of annoyance.

Makes me sick. Corrupt…all of them. Contrary to popular belief, Loeb's not doing much to help. Maybe Gotham's crime rates would be lower if he'd hire a few more "honest cops." Maybe he could just become honest himself. He's not as bad as some, but still…as the man in charge…

I'll be sure to cut through his picture.

I return to the kitchen and spend another ten minutes hunting for a pair of scissors and Scotch tape. After I locate them, I turn on a light and settle down in the middle of our kitchen floor. I give _The Psychology of Fear_ a fond look before placing it in the shoebox. The lid goes on—Lord, this is heavy—and I freeze my progress, surveying the newspapers spread out around me as I drum my fingers against my kneecap. Yipes, I know what the next step is, but…

It feels like ages—has been ages, actually—since I've last wrapped a present for _anyone_, even Mom. For her, I normally just make a bad dinner that she pretends to like or I take her out somewhere. Whatever I could afford. When I still had a job. Which is still a problem that needs fixing.

I manage to slop my way through the ordeal and finish. It's kind of a bad-looking job, but what does it matter? Jonathan won't go nuts over a pathetic wrapping attempt; he's not expecting any gifts from anyone. It's sad. I'll even bet he won't get one from his sweet old grandma.

My thoughts come to a screeching halt, and I slowly set the gift on the floor.

My vision darkens at the edges as I think about her. My hands start to shake. How could I have left him there? _How could I have left him there?_ I had tried to shove this disgust with myself and self-hate back down my throat, but try as I might, it's always going to be there. Because of one error. I'd been doing such a good job of forgetting it, too…

Cold, arrogant Jonathan. Too clever for his own good. Born under unfortunate circumstances, teased and tormented all his life. Any form of abuse taken with a superior air and cold silence. Except for that night. He had nearly been in tears, looking so lost, so defeated, so…hopeless. And helpless. Not like him at all. I'll bet something inside of Jonathan breaks every time Geraldine does this to him. The experiences have ingrained the sensation of fear in him. Fear. Such a powerful thing. One he'll want to overcome. And now he knows he can feel it just like the rest of us. He always has.

How much will this change him?

"You're not making anything better. Quit fooling yourself," I sulk, and at the same time, eyeball the sharp pair of scissors resting innocently on the floor. Really, I should just kill myself and make it all go away. So I can't do any more damage, and then there would be one less thing for Jonathan to worry about.

_Don't be silly; don't even joke about it. You're stronger than that. Believe it or not, he needs you._ Welcome home, Voice of Reason.

Since I can't push all the bad experiences away, I roll my eyes and decide that the best I can do is simply distract myself. I'm going to walk up to the mailboxes at around 4:20. I know that I can very well drive instead of walk, but Crane, without a doubt, would be able to hear the truck and keep track of what was happening. And then the surprise would be ruined. Anyway, I need the exercise, and what's the point of wasting gas?

Nope. I'll walk. Then watch. Like a creeper.

Still fuming at my subconscious, I plop down in front of the TV and stare at the screen for an hour. The "idiot box," Mom calls it. It's sure turning me into one; I'm not taking in _anything,_ not even the fact that we're _now_ getting cold rain this upcoming week.

I sigh and stretch out on the carpet as I wait for 4:20 to roll around. Eventually it does, and I pop out our front door with the package under my arm and a strange bounce in my step. I had remembered, completely last second and on a whim, to grab my father's letter from the desk upstairs. It's now tucked under my arm along with the parcel.

The trek up the road doesn't give me as much hell as it did last time. I'm not out of breath from walking and there's no stitch in my side when I arrive. I throw the letter for Dad in our box and next debate where to set his present. I settle, while scratching my chin in a thoughtful fashion, for simply placing it on the ground beneath the Cranes' battered mailbox. Good enough; it won't fit inside anything.

With a exhalation of hot air, I start back to our house as planned, and once I get there, sit down on our cold, stone steps. I have an open view of the stretch of road. Jonathan will walk straight past my house. Sure enough, ten minutes later and right on schedule, he goes by. I sit up, my spine rigid.

He also doesn't acknowledge me sitting there, if he's seen me at all. He's wearing an ugly, mustard-colored sweater that makes me want to slap myself in the face and is walking like someone has shoved a pine cone up his ass. I watch his short, slim figure disappear into the distance and get the feeling he's running away from me. He always seems to be. The waiting game has begun. What's he still doing at his house, anyway? At eighteen, shouldn't he be gone by now?

I get eager when I spot Jonathan nearing our driveway on the way back His walk has slowed as he stares down at the package between his hands with something just short of wonder. I hadn't left my name or address—I'd just scrawled his own name out across the newspaper in black marker—but I'm sure he knows. He would recognize my cursive. Other envelopes are tucked under his left arm.

Jonathan stops directly and intentionally in front of our house and looks up to see me perched on the front steps. He's taken aback by my "sudden" appearance. I grin and lift my hand for a small wave.

Barely visible, Crane pushes his glasses up his nose and glances down at the unopened package and back up at me. Down at the package and back to me once more. And knows. Hardly detectable to my eye, he holds the gift a bit tighter and gives me a searching look. Hesitantly and reluctantly, and perhaps only out of fair politeness, he returns the gesture.

He acknowledges my existence! I reprimand myself for acting like a schoolgirl who's just been winked at by her crush.

My smile grows and remains even as he vanishes after a five-minute staredown. This is awkward and stiff for him, and I understand that. I hope Jonathan _knows_ that I understand. But I'll do my best to make it normal. It's cold outside, but I stay warm and content. How unlike me. I'm such an irrational creature.

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><p><strong>AN: Okay, I watched the new _Jane Eyre_ for the first time last night. And loved it! (No matter what, the ending still pisses me off.) They certainly had Mr. Rochester at his sexy best )**** As a result of all my drooling, in addition to Cillian Murphy, Tom Hiddleston, and Tom Hardy, I've officially declared Michael Fassbender as a total babe. I wanted to see him lose control so badly in that movie…(that sounds so awkward -_-) Can you tell me if you've seen _A Dangerous Method_?**

**Anyway, I've got some plans for the next two chapters. In the next one, we'll be finishing up _The Crucible_. So if you don't like that for some reason, feel free to skip it. The one after that deals with watching _The Silence of the Lambs, _teasing, and the spring concert. And then BAM! Summer vacation. Which won't be as long as you're thinking.**

**Jumping around here, I got my first iPod for Christmas. Yeah, you'd think for all my love of music that I'd have one by now. Let's face it; I'm broke. A graphite 6th generation Nano, 16GB. So happy! Off ebay for $130.**

**Question of the Day: Partly inspired by this chapter, what's the worst, most terrible horror movie you've ever seen? I'm saying...just plain bad.**

**Funny lines? Good stuff? I WANNA KNOW! PLEASE REVIEW. I'm not a huge fan of the fave n' run thing. It's in your best interest to leave an opinion. I try to get back to everybody.**


	15. Dysfunctional

**A/N: YAY so here's the chapter. Finally. Yes, I know it's late again. But it's long, so I find that a great excuse. The only thing I have to say is that I'm getting incredibly lazy. Again. But luckily, inspiration is being kind. With a new semester back in session, things have started piling up.**

**So I GUESS what I'm going to say, AS A WARNING TO YOU WHO HAVE NOT HAD TO PLEASURE TO READ THE CRUCIBLE, this chapter is going to be pretty dry. If you want to skip it, fine. But you may miss some things. Don't complain about it.**

**I found out that the name "Ames" (AY-mz) means "friend." What a coincidence! And that "Walk" by the Foo Fighters is my favorite song of all time. Right now.**

**There were so many awful horror movies mentioned to me that I had heard of, but never seen. So the worst horror movie I've ever seen…is _Jason X._ Really. Jason….in space?**

**I'm considering starting a Loki/OC fic called _Facing the Mirror. _I haven't written anything, but I'm still gathering ideas :/  
><strong>

**Thanks to **CD, Fox Alder, corbsxx, SilhouetteGypsy, Silential, ., linnie kinda spinnie, Thunderscourge, Poekie, iwishtheskywasgreen, Personna Dilemma, Starrycat05, pourquoibella, Arlena4815162342, xsmokeandmirrorsx, forgetmenotflowers, AylaAbbs, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, Comidia Del Arte, Thanatos Angelos Girl, BrontoBree, DigThatManiac, LittleMissAngel, **and** Wafia Primo **for the reviews! You guys literally blew me out of my chair when I opened my e-mail and saw all those alerts. *bows* BLESS YOUR HEARTS! Also thanks to those who added me to Faves/Alerts!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything, not even _The Crucible._ So keep your complaints to yourself and don't sue me for my scarce money. Vultures.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen: Dysfunctional<strong>

_Seems like I'm falling deeper,_

_Deeper inside myself._

_Feels like I'm growing weaker,_

_Much weaker each day,_

_Along the path to decay._

_**~Sirenia, The Path to Decay**_

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><p>Despite renewing our friendship, me giving him a birthday present, and our exchanging of small waves and gestures, Jonathan doesn't show up for lunch on Monday. If I'm lucky, the homemade cavatini or corndogs don't appeal to him and he's avoiding food poisoning. If I'm unlucky, worst case scenario, my gift to him has sent him running in the opposite direction, and now he's avoiding me again.<p>

Always the pessimist, I say aloud, "Shit. He's relapsed." I'm sitting alone, scowling out the doors at the gray sky. I can't possibly do anything to fix this. And _why_ had he still been at his house yesterday? He should've been gone, somewhere else. He's eighteen! Unless…unless…

No. I refuse to think about it. I won't.

To my astonishment, toward the end of lunch, Naomi breaks off from the popular crowd and comes over to stand at my table. I give her pretty brown face a cautious smile, hiding my inner depression. She's so nice to me. Why is she so nice to me? Maybe I'll ask her, maybe I won't. Probably won't. Not today.

She waves a hand at the table. "He's not here, huh?"

I shake my head. "Nope. But he's probably in the library."

"He coming back?"

"Doubt it." Despite my suppression, a strand of worry laces through my tone.

Naomi blinks and smiles. "Cool. Can I sit down?" I'm half tempted to pull a Jonathan on her and ask, "I don't know. _Can_ you?"

I eye her warily. "Sure." I can't help but notice that she doesn't call Jonathan by name, just like everyone else. I really want to like her, so I pass it off as discomfort. What the hey, I'll give her a chance.

Naomi sits down in Jonathan's unoccupied spot. Silence stretches, and I get very uncomfortable. I tend to avoid talking to girls my own age; Zora was the only one who ever came close to a girlfriend. What are we supposed to talk about? I'm not _like_ other teenage girls.

I can feel the eyes of her group boring into my neck. I rap my fingers nervously on the table and lick my lips.

She breaks the stillness first, with a surprising question that burns of undying curiosity. "You're not really sleeping with him, are you?"

I freeze with a forkful of food in midair, before jumping, shaking my head, choking with my mouth wide open, and flushing the color of an overripe tomato. Or maybe I blanched paler than a turnip.

When I finally get my wits together, I put down my fork and respond, "No. That's bullcrap. Hogwash." I avoid looking into her eyes.

Naomi nods, and her straight, chocolate-colored ponytail glides over her slim shoulder. I would kill, murder, to have such shoulders. And to have hair that natural, rich color, instead of an ashy brown. "Never believed it for a second. You don't seem like the type. Not him either."

"He has a name," I snap. She's taken aback by my defensiveness. "Feel free to use it."

"I know," she says softly, hurt by my harsh voice. I roll my eyes. Great, now I have guilt. But Naomi isn't done. "They think it's weird that you hang around him, but I think it's sweet of you to do that. He needs it. Kinda a sacrifice for you. It's gallant."

_Gallant?_ I scoff and snort with laughter before stating dismissively, "Oh, please. I'm not a martyr and he's not a charity case." Naomi can be a bit overdramatic sometimes. "No sacrifice involved." Huh. I'm actually holding a conversation. "Well, other than my reputation."

"Why do you do it?" Naomi asks shyly, black eyes bright.

Never in my life would I have thought I'd be talking about mine and Crane's relationship to _anybody_. Sadly, I'm not about to start. I keep my eyes away from her. "I just… I don't know. He's my neighbor, and being there is what good neighbors do." And that's all she's getting from me. It's also the most corny thing I've ever said in my life. And it makes me duck my head at my stupidity and blush even harder.

But Naomi, as a teenager, is still a gossiping girl—a nice one—but a girl nonetheless. She takes one look at my flushed cheeks and gasps, pointing an accusing finger at me. "You have a thing for him!"

At this point, I'd been in the process of drinking my chocolate milk. It goes down the wrong tube because of my sudden air intake. I manage to sputter out, "Bite me!" The very idea! Good God, I already _know_ I'm not attracted to Jonathan _that_ way. But why am I so flustered? Damn. I care for him, but like a nurse to a patient, a teacher to a student. That's the best I can do to define it.

Naomi just grins at me, causing me to further insist, "It's not like that! _Jesus."_

"Sure, Ames. Sure," she giggles. Teasing does _not_ make me a very happy woman. How can you deny something like that and _not_ make it seem true?

The bell signaling the end of the lunch period rings and saves my butt from further pesky inquiries. "Gotta go," I chirp, before taking off and leaving my tray behind for the janitors to take care of. The very happy janitors…

I've just opened myself to further speculation. She _will_ tell her group; I'm sure that they sent her over to my one-person table for that purpose. Geez, and here I was thinking she'd been different. In a way, she is. I can't seem to make up my mind about Naomi. She's not worthy of trust…yet. We'll get there; we'll get there. Right now I'm actually marveling at the fact that I want companionship with another female human being.

I eagerly skip through fourth period. I can't wait for fifth to roll around. We're finishing _The Crucible_ this week. Finally! To tell you the truth, I'm pumped and getting sick of it at the same time.

Rare for me, I get to American History early, my encounter with Naomi slowly fading out of sight. There aren't very many people in the room yet, but more are finally pouring in. Jonathan's here, as usual, before I am. I get about five feet away from my own desk before I bite my lip and actually look at him, to check how he is.

I stop dead. And my mouth drops.

His long hair is covering his face, but I can see that he…looks…awful. Bruises mottle his defined cheeks and chin; even both eyes have been blackened. My breathing quickens as the blotching extends down to his pale neck above the collar of his white shirt. Dread washes over me. I hadn't heard any crows over the weekend, but so many of his scratches have been freshly reopened. How? How is no one saying anything about this? It's not _unnoticeable_! I'm angry; I am _angry._ I can't stop looking at his hands, their slenderness marred by cuts, from where they're resting on top of his desk.

Crane sees my vacant expression first and then spots my gaze on his hands. With his air of natural nonchalance, he slides them under his desk and into his lap. _There._ A quick flash of…panic? But fleeting.

I don't move. He sighs from the looks we're getting. "Ames, sit down," he instructs. Forever the voice of reason. My voice of reason. I do as he says, trembling and repressing thoughts that threaten to break my control.

These fresh wounds…mean a beating…which means he…tried…and wasn't allow—

_STOP IT!_ I shriek at myself, nearly whacking my head against the desk. _STOP right there! Don't you dare think any further._ So I don't. But the awful revelation is there, sitting on the edge and at my fingertips.

Jonathan is so clever. He knows where my mind's going, the horrid direction it's headed. He knows he needs to tell me something. Because it's my business now, too.

As I drill holes into my desk with burning eyes, trying to convince myself _not_ to go nuts, from my right, Crane leans over just a hairsbreadth to murmur, "I need you to meet me at the grove after school. Be quick about it." He pauses. "_Please._ We have to speak."

I break out of my inner turmoil and look at him as if he's just announced he was going to pull out his eyes and eat them. First of all, I'm stunned that he said 'please.' Secondly, Crane wants me to _meet_ him somewhere. Okay…

I study his face, so expressionless, and trace the bruises with my passing glance. His two beautiful blue eyes are now hidden by puffy, dark, swollen skin erupting from behind the round glasses. He looks like he's squinting. And of course, this is _Gotham _High School…no one will say anything. Not even the teachers.

I know that our meeting will only confirm my worst fears and send me into a freaking panic attack. So maybe that's why I agree to it. Jonathan holds my eyes until I nod my head at him.

He doesn't speak to me any more as Mr. Matthew Spade enters the room and shows the daily news. Or after that. Jonathan doesn't even make a mention of his birthday gift. I think I've been expecting too much. However, once the lights of the classroom come back on, I look down for Jonathan's regular pile on the floor by his desk. The book, _The Psychology of Fear,_ is at the top of the stack. I can't keep myself from grinning idiotically, my fears quieting at the sudden change of mood.

I'm even able to comment on Destiny's more-revealing-than-usual outfit. "She looks like a dirty pirate hooker," I mutter to myself. Jonathan shoots me a half-blinded look that shouts disapproval. I get the feeling he's telling me to be more mature.

Mr. Spade claps his hands to get our short attention. "All right, guys. Let's get cracking. Turn to page 61, where we left off." We take out the books. Mr. Spade rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. "We'll finish Act Two today. After that, I have to admit, to get this done, I'll be assigning some reading to do at home. The most important parts of the play will be read in class."

There are a few scattered sighs of relief . Mr. Spade holds up a finger. "Your day's about to get better. You have permission to remain seated. The past two weeks have shown signs of improvement in our participation area." He flips us a boyish smile. A couple girls sigh, and I see Destiny lean forward in her low-cut top. I look away in horror and gag as I hold down snickers. "You're being rewarded. Don't forget that. I still want to see enthusiasm!"

Yup. He's a drama coach.

Our young teacher drags a desk from the corner of the room and sits down in our circle as soon as we form it. "Okay, Jonathan. You start. I know you missed the last time, but I'm sure you're all caught up enough to know what's going on. Reverend Hale arrives at John and Elizabeth Proctor's house to warn them that Elizabeth's name has been mentioned in court. Begin."

Crane licks his lips and reads, "'Why, Mr. Hale! Good evening to you, sir. Come in, come in.'" My eyebrows go up in astonishment_. He's seizing it._ Why now? Why so suddenly eager to participate? Because I had insisted upon it so many times?

Neil Edelman's turn. "'I hope I do not startle you.'" He addresses Summer as Elizabeth, across the room.

I grit my teeth as I hear her chirp like the diva she is. She may not have wanted to be "John's wife", but she'll be annoying all the same. "'No, no, it's only that I heard no horse—'"

"'You are Goodwife Proctor.'" It comes out as a question.

Jonathan answers for her, distaste clearly shown at the casting of her part. "'Aye, Elizabeth.'"

Neil really is very good. "'I hope you're not off to bed yet.'"

As depicted in the script, Jonathan makes himself sound nervous. I shake my head in wonder. He's deriving a small, silly pleasure from life. "'No, no. We are not used to visitors after dark, but you're welcome here. Will you sit you down, sir?'" _Such a flawless tone,_ I admire.

"'I will. Let you sit, Goodwife Proctor.'"

Mr. Spade reads the stage directions. "'She does, never letting him out of her sight. There is a pause as Hale looks about the room.'"

Proctor, breaking said silence. "'Will you drink cider, Mr. Hale?'"

Hale: "'No, it rebels my stomach; I have some further traveling yet tonight. Sit you down, sir.'" A pause. "'I will not keep you long, but I have some business with you.'"

"'Business of the court?''

Neil insists, "'No—no, I come of my own, without the court's authority. Hear me. I know not if you are aware, but your wife's name is—mentioned in the court.'"

Proctor: "'We know it, sir. Our Mary Warren told us. We are entirely amazed.'" His tone doesn't say so. I sit back to enjoy the scene, getting a premonition that Abigail doesn't come in for a long while.

Hale gets a speech. "'I am a stranger here, as you know. And in my ignorance, I find it hard to draw a clear opinion of them that come accused before the court. And so this afternoon, and now tonight, I go from house to house—I come now from Rebecca Nurse's house and—'"

Summer trills happily, "'Rebecca's charged!'" Grrr…

Neil shakes his head, across the room. "'God forbid such a one be charged. She is, however—mentioned somewhat.'"

Summer snorts. "'You will never believe, I hope, that Rebecca trafficked with the Devil.'"

'"Woman, it is possible.'" I frown to myself, deeply into the play. These people really have no faith…

Proctor: "'Surely you cannot think so.'"

From this point on, it's a lot of going back and forth. And you start to see how Proctor's dissatisfaction with the Puritan faith and society are beginning to backfire on him. Absence from Mass, only two of his three children being baptized…this won't bode well. I grow a bit irritated when Reverend Hale defends Mr. Parris' dishonesty and insists upon his goodliness.

Then Hale asks the question. "'Do you know your commandments, Elizabeth?'"

"'I surely do. There be no mark of blame upon my life, Mr. Hale. I am a covenanted Christian woman.'" Summer sounds _so_ self-satisfied.

Neil looks at Jonathan. "'And you, Mister?'" He sounds like a school teacher…

Jonathan, unsteadily, but dignified: "'I—am sure I do, sir.'"

"'Let you repeat them, if you will.'"

"'The Commandments.'" A true spark of recognition on his face. I won't doubt that he knows them in real life.

Hale: "'Aye.'"

Unlike Proctor in the play, Crane begins to recite with cool confidence. "'Thou shalt not kill.'"

"'Aye.'"

He rattles them off. No wonder he knows them, with the grandmother he's got. "'Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods, nor make unto thee any graven image. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain; thou shalt have no other gods before me.'" No pauses from Crane; he keeps going, not following the emotions of the script. Oh well. "'Thou shalt remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy. Thou shalt honor thy father and mother. Thou shalt not bear false witness. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.'"

Neil's turn, slightly scolding. "'You have said that twice, sir.'"

Summer comes in, quiet for her. "'Adultery, John.'"

We all hold our breath as a brief hush falls upon the classroom. The last sentence seems to echo. I let out air, shaking my head. Ouch.

Proctor: "'You see, sir, between the two of us we do know them all. I think it be a small fault.'"

And the slammer. "'Theology, sir, is a fortress; no crack in a fortress may be accounted small.'"

Hale makes to leave, and Elizabeth, the good wife, reminds Proctor to tell Hale what he knows about the girls' sickness. That it has nothing to do with witchcraft. That they'd been frightened and took sick upon being found dancing in the woods.

Whoa, it's backfiring every way! It is revealed that Abigail Williams told him so. At the mention of her name, my head perks up. I get a bit confused with what happens next, other than I get annoyed with Hale's weak, do-good character. Now he starts questioning their belief in witches after this info? The hell? The idea of witches existing is ridiculous. But yes, Geraldine Crane gets pretty darn close. And Elizabeth is getting suspected again! This whole thing is frustrating. I will my head to quit spinning.

Giles Corey comes in and announces his wife and sweet old Rebecca Nurse have been arrested. Shocking really. Corey, in a way, condemned his own wife by saying she'd been reading weird books.

It's a mess. Ezekiel Cheever's character, the jailer of sorts, comes in to stir things up. Elizabeth Proctor has a warrant out for her arrest.

Jonathan, mildly, doesn't raise his voice. "'You said she were not charged!'"

Hale appears equally befuddled. My character, Abigail Williams, had charged Goody Proctor with the witchcraft. Her jealousy is really coming through. And on the proof of a poppet, a doll. And it just so happens to be in the house. No one knows what it signifies at this point. Cheever looks at the doll and finds a needle stuck in it. It seems like nothing, so why does Cheever freak out?

Jonathan barks, "'And what signifies a needle?'"

It's revealed. "'The girl, the Williams girl, sir. She sat to dinner in Reverend Parris' house tonight, and without word nor warning, she falls to the floor. Like a struck beast, he says, and screamed a scream that a bull would weep to hear. And he goes to save her, and, stuck two inches to the flesh of her belly, he draw a needle out. And demandin' of her how she come to be so stabbed, she testify it were your wife's familiar spirit pushed it in!'"

I get it now. How is this any sort of proof?

Mr. Spade does a cruel, cruel thing. Right before Mary Warren is brought in, he stops us. "Okay, guys. There's about fifteen minutes of class time left, so I want you to finish Act Two on your own. As homework for tomorrow, you need to start Act Three. Pages 79 to the bottom of 98, just after Judge Danforth's speech." I listen eagerly as he pauses for a breath. "The climax of the play comes tomorrow. You can start reading, but in the mean time," he holds up a stack of papers, "I'll be passing around those permission sheets for the movie. I'd like them back, with your parent's signature, by the end of the week."

And with that, he leaves us to finish.

I get done before class is over and sit back to comprehend what I've just read. So Mary Warren insists that _she_ was the one who put the needle in the doll for safekeeping. And that everyone saw her do it in court. Even Abigail. And all because of this freaking needle, Elizabeth has a charge of witchcraft against her.

Goddamn. When she was arrested… Proctor flipped shit. He seems to be a bit of a hypocrite, you know, for a guy who cheated on his wife. He wouldn't let her be chained and yelled up a storm, apparently. Pushed back in to pay off the officer people. Didn't happen, and Hale got kicked out of the house.

Mary and Proctor faced off. He told her she would go to court with him to charge murder on Abigail. She said she couldn't do it. What a wimp. I may be harsh or judging, but really? She's trapped. And told Proctor that Abigail would charge him with lechery and that all the girls would turn on her. Proctor, hating himself, didn't care. It ended with Proctor's great speech on how Mary needs to make peace with it and that he doesn't care what happens to him.

Too much. Too much, man. But it's great.

The bell signals the end of a stressful day. I slip the book into my schoolbag and get up. Jonathan's already ahead of me, and I consider walking with him, but decide against it and leave him alone. He doesn't want to talk to me yet, and he needs to prepare for whatever he's going to tell me at the grove, at our meeting. Which I'm extremely nervous for. Being _alone_ together at _school_ is one thing; actually scheduling to meet up somewhere is a different matter entirely. It vaguely reminds me of the objective of a… Okay, ew. Just…no. I need to keep my mind from wandering into uncharted territory. Jonathan's a _friend._ _Just_ a friend.

Walking through the hallways, I violently shake my head from side to side like a dog in order to rattle my brain and clear my head. Heck, I just need to stop _thinking._

When I sit in my truck a few minutes later, debating, I really consider taking the long route home, just to delay the meeting. My usual path is driving along the edge of the city to find that small connecting road between the Narrows and Gotham and then taking said road. No, not the bridge. The road mentioned before only temporarily passes through the heart of the Narrows before taking a few turns and heading out toward the edge of the island, to that small, sparse country area where we live. The route I'm thinking about following now includes using the bridge, driving through the heart of the Narrows for a longer time (unappealing) before getting those turns. Like I said, the latter option would take longer and delay the meeting. It's also the stupider choice.

Be quick about it, he'd said. So I decide against the dumb action. Jonathan obviously wants to talk to me AND get home in a timely fashion, to avoid angering his crone of a grandma. Probably wants to turn the kid into a slave or something.

My dark thoughts help nothing. Continuing this way will only worsen my reaction to receiving whatever news Crane's going to deliver later. The thoughts certainly don't make driving through the Narrows easier. But I can't—no, refuse—to pull myself out of them.

It's so dark and dreary and gloomy here. Because of the gray weather, there really isn't anyone on the streets. However, in a passing glance, I see a person ambling along the sidewalk whilst wearing a grotesque werewolf mask. I don't give it two seconds thought and press down on the accelerator, passing the figure. Odd? For sure. It's better that I'd not lingered to stare.

After all, loonies dressing up in Halloween costumes and threatening public safety is an everyday occurrence around here.

Finally, the dingy buildings and cracked surroundings fade away to a more open stretch of air and road. Small, and not as fresh as it could be, but seeing the countryside is a relief. For five minutes, I follow the poorly-kept highway straight. Then, there's the violent twist in the road, which leads you to the turnoff…of the next gravel road. The one with the grove resting off to the side of it at the head. I'd known which one he'd meant.

It's where I'm supposed to meet Jonathan. And he's here. Leaning against a dry tree in the center of the grove. It's not a nice day. He's waiting for me; he sees my truck approaching and doesn't move an inch. Arms crossed, lounging. What kind of trees are grown here, anyway?

I pull to the side of the road, parking behind his rusty station wagon, and count to ten before crawling out of Black Jack. It takes me forever to reach the grove. I stumble down the ditch on the way down it; he sees. But I keep my eyes cast to the ground the whole time I'm walking. When my surroundings darken, I know I'm in the tiny grove. And somehow manage to stop ten to fifteen feet away from where Jonathan is.

I don't want to be close when I hear this.

Still not looking at him, I stare at the slightly-green grass beneath my feet and mumble, "Well, I'm here. What did you want to tell me so badly? You look awful, by the way." I have no idea why I decided to throw in that last part, but I did it. He probably, physically and spiritually, feels bad enough as it is. "I didn't hear any crows over the weekend so…" I trail off.

Jonathan must get tired of my babbling. His voice reaches out across the gap, the great distance, between us. "You remember me saying that when I officially came of age, I would leave my house and Grandmother for a better place." It's more of a statement than a question.

But his _tone_ makes me look up at him. Jonathan's still leaning against the tree, but he seems to be talking to the sky rather than to me. _He's uncomfortable,_ I realize. _Shaded, guarded. Tortured?_

He doesn't continue, so with my worst suspicions at hand, I feel the need to spur him on with a weak voice. One, weak question. "What's happened?"

Stillness, broken a few minutes later by a bird flapping its wings somewhere overhead. I shudder, rooted on the spot.

Jonathan finally meets my eyes. "I couldn't leave—can't leave," he corrects himself quickly. There's a barely detectable catch in his voice.

Even though this is expected, the news still hits me hard, and I feel stabbed through the heart; I feel like I've been run over by a semi truck. I shouldn't care; none of my business. _I shouldn't care._

I direct my gaze back to the ground.

Crane seems impervious to my reaction, to my silence. "I was packing my belongings, and Grandmother caught me. After the beating, she became occupied with making me more of a prisoner in my own house than I already am." I don't want to hear any more, but he continues on with that unnerving calmness that makes me want to shake him. "My bedroom door now locks from the outside, there are bars on my window, and the locks on the front door have been replaced. Only Grandmother has that key."

He adds, as an afterthought, "There are too many complications for me to be running away." A pause. "I thought you deserved to know."

The last detail fades away into nothing as I stare hard at the ground with clenched fists. My head pounds and my vision blurs. My own breathing becomes magnified in my ears. Loud.

_C'mon, girl. Keep it together…don't cry…don't cry…don't cry…damn._ Despite my hardy resistance, tears leak out of my eyes silently. No sobbing, just warm, steady tears.

In the name of all that is holy…! Some friend I am. I'm _supposed_ to be his friend. Isn't it my duty to _protect_ him from these things? It's all my fault somehow; it _has_ to be! My tear ducts operate faster. I _know_ I'm overreacting, but I can't seem to stop…

I faintly hear a noise. The sound is like someone dry-heaving sandpaper. I realize with shock that it's me. My ears had gone temporarily deaf. That witch; that _witch!_ The evil, twisted _witch!_

"Ames?" So far away…

He's heard my noises. So much for not sobbing. I am what I am. An overly emotional, hysterical, irrational woman. Just like the rest of the female species.

I stand there, staring at the ground with warm, salty tears streaming steadily down my face. I don't even know that Jonathan approaches me until his worn, black shoes enter my line of vision. _I won't look up, I won't look up…_

Something very, very strange occurs. Very bold, very forward.

Jonathan's graceful and scratched hand enters my sight. He grabs my face and pulls it close to his, forcing me to look at him. For one very confused moment, I almost think that he's going to…

His long fingers are cool as they grasp my stubborn chin, pulling me down six inches so we're at an even height. His eyes flicker back and forth between my own, searching for something I can't understand. How can that blue gaze be so penetrating, even through all the bruising? That, plus our close contact, freezes my soul.

Crane wasn't unsure; he'd never even hesitated. When he doesn't let go right away, I have an inner panic attack.

But I see what he's doing right now. Jonathan's forcing me to look him in the eye and face the situation. He wants to observe and judge and understand my current reaction. So I let him pull me down to his level. Literally.

Jonathan holds on for a few more seconds with a hard grip and examines my tears with a confused frown. "Why are you crying?" He releases me and I stumble back a few steps, rubbing the spots his fingers had been.

I paw at my eyes in order to wipe away tears. With a silly, watery smile (now that I've gotten past the initial shock of it all), I say, "I can't…really…explain."

"Try me." Therapist mode now. He's still rupturing my personal bubble.

I spill my thoughts. "First of all, I'm a woman, so I'm unreasonable and illogical and hysterical. It's my nature."

He takes it all in and waits for more. Instead, I get off track and gesture at one of his short arms. "Can you roll up your sleeve?"

Now he hesitates, but out of reluctance. After a while, Jonathan complies. He hasn't worn his jacket, so the process of shoving up his long, cuffed sleeve is a short one. Just up to his elbow is what I want to see. Pushing the fabric aside reveals his pale, scrawny forearm dotted with fine hairs…and dark, angry blotches. I gasp. Bruised skin here, bumps there. It's like he's been tortured. At my intake of air, Crane lets the sleeve fall back down to cover it all, ultimately deciding I've seen enough.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "See, that's why. I'm sad for you. As your friend—"

"Don't be," he interrupts dangerously.

I glare at him and fold my arms across my chest in a defensive position. "Are you a martyr?" He shakes his long-haired head. "And I wasn't finished. I was saying that as your 'friend,' I feel responsible and that I should be helping you escape or something. I feel…guilty."

Jonathan actually has a stiff expression of concern on his face. For my sanity, probably. "I don't want your sympathy, nor do I need your concern. As I've said before."

I blink and stay quiet. Despite all my rage at his home life, what do you say to something like _that?_ Wise option: keeping my mouth shut. That biting tone of his!

His smooth, calculating voice is back as he checks my well-being and state of mental health. "To conclude, you are calm now. A rational creature. How are you feeling?"

I'm still jittery, shaky, and painfully sympathetic. My heartstrings have been yanked on too hard. "I feel like someone lit my guts on fire," I grouse nonsensically.

Jonathan raises an eyebrow and strides past me, out of the grove and up to the vehicles on the road. I start and jog to catch up on his heels. We stop beside his station wagon. Well, he _did_ say something about wanting this to be quick. I guess ten minutes was his limit.

We face each other, and his eyes scorch me with a look so full of concern that I have reason to believe he thinks I'm about to go shrieking my head off like a banshee at any given moment. "Ames, I've asked you this before," he states coolly, "and this time it needs to be an oath. Stay out of our business. Let me deal with my situation. Keep to yourself." He doesn't sound so bothered by it anymore.

The intensity of his gaze is too much heat for me, and I'm forced to look wildly around in all other directions, practically waving my hands in the air. "Fine, I will. But please stop looking at me like I'm going to implode! It's fine…I'm fine!" But I still hate myself to pieces. No _way _am I letting this go. No _way_ am I keeping the promise. I'm a good liar, and he'll hate me for it.

Satisfied for the moment, Jonathan nods at me rigidly and slips into his old clanky car. He leaves me by the side of the road as he drives away. More like I wait for him to take that last turn out of sight before hopping into my truck and heading home. Having us arrive at our houses consecutively would be far from ideal. In case Geraldine is waiting for Jonathan to get back. She better not see me.

That miserable crone…oh, how I would love to get my hands on her. This isn't over. I will find a way to help Jonathan along to freedom. I raise my head high and tighten my hold on the steering wheel.

I've gone from fearful to devastated to feeling empowered. An improvement, in my opinion.

* * *

><p>The next day. Tuesday. For a little while I'm nervous about facing Jonathan, even though I shouldn't be. The memory of yesterday still burns brightly in my mind. Will things have…changed? He, Jonathan Crane, who avoided all association and all contact with foreign human beings, had grabbed my face and held it for nearly a minute. Apparently, I'm an odd specimen. For whatever reason, I'm a curious exception.<p>

It turns out that I have nothing to worry about. I become concerned too easily. Over lunch today, there's no talk of touchy things, though I detect that the situation with his grandmother hasn't been corrected. We don't really speak at all.

He reads the book I bought him for his birthday. I don't need or really want any thanks for the gift; I'd chosen to get it, after all. The fact that he's reading it instead of returning it shows enough gratitude. I'm happy with that.

So I watch Jonathan read about fear, while I poke and prod at the unidentifiable glob on my green, plastic lunch tray. By smell and sight alone, I've narrowed it down to something containing components of beef.

No tasting on my life.

Another mystery lunch. Delightful. Jonathan had finished his quickly in order to avoid conversation with me and get back to his "light reading."

I try not to bother him. But shockingly, he bothers me first. He glances up from his book. "Ames, what do you fear?"

I blink. "Pardon?"

"I'd like to know what you're afraid of." The cool, logical, hard-toned voice. Yikes… This is random. Or not.

I wince; this is a rather personal matter, an invading question. I don't really want to share because it's such a silly fear that he can ridicule. But I figure that if it makes his day that much better, full steam ahead. Thrusters on full.

I chew on my thumbnail and squint my eyes. "I don't like birds," I say after a while with a shrug.

A flash of surprise across his features. But he doesn't say anything and simply returns to _The Psychology of Fear._

Huffing impatiently at him giving nothing back, I inquire stupidly (somewhat knowingly), "What about you, huh? What gives you the willies?" I want to drop my head on the table the minute the question comes out of my mouth.

Jonathan shoots me his signature death glare, still penetrating even from behind two black eyes. I think I turn white. Pure fury, and I can see why this would be a touchy subject for him. He still believes himself to be superior to us all, incapable of feeling fear or weakness. But I know him better. I had seen him that night. I know.

I raise my hands in surrender and back off. I go as far as getting up and dumping my uneaten "lunch" into one of the large blue trashcans. And I actually debate whether or not I should sit down at the table again. I decide to tough it out and take my seat once more. The rest of this agitated period is spent in tense silence.

Maybe I should start bringing reading material of my own. Or at least something to work on.

Last night, after a small tussle with Mom over why I had been home later than usual (I'd made up job-hunting as a plausible excuse), I'd produced the permission slip Mr. Spade passed out for the movie, lest I forget. She'd signed it without hesitation. Probably so I'd be quicker about going up to my room and out of her sight. This thing between us is growing steadily worse, and I don't know why. It seems like that as my relationship with Jonathan turns for the better, the relationship with my mother gets worse. An odd coincidence.

I'd spent the rest of the night reading _The Crucible _(nothing _that_ important happened) and brainstorming ways to help Jonathan escape his house. None of them would work—I'm not even kidding you—unless Jonathan and Geraldine decide to take a vacation together. The thought was damn near laughable.

Yes, _he'd_ have to be gone, too. I wouldn't have wanted him to see me breaking my "oath."

I take my place beside Jonathan in American History later, and again, I do it silently. Everything's been resolved between us, but why can't we speak without arguing? I couldn't admit this to myself, but yesterday, I'd come so incredibly close to spilling my guts to him about Falcone, to telling him our history and story.

As a friend, doesn't he deserve to know?

I actually turn toward Jonathan to speak my mind when Mr. Spade strolls into the room and orders us to take out our books. I snap my mouth shut and move my desk into the circle like everyone else, amazed when Mr. Spade does as well.

He isn't showing the news today. Why? Does he want to get down to business this fast?

Obviously. "Everyone, let's start now. I want to finish Act Three in class today," are the first words out of his mouth. Gee, he's more obsessed than I am.

Heads nod dutifully as he continues, "You all read the first half of the act last night, correct?" A few guilty or careless faces prove otherwise. Mr. Spade sighs. "Well, I don't have time to fight you. So, out of my generous heart, I'll give you a quick rundown of what happened."

He crosses one lean leg over the other, khaki pant leg riding up ever so slightly to reveal a black-and-white-striped sock. I hold back a laugh and stare; it's very distracting. Mr. Spade catches me looking at it and winks before starting. "Basically, everything comes down in this act. That's all I'm giving you about what we're about to read."

He turns into a teacher when he throws out a question. "Ames. Give me one thing that happened in the reading."

"Oh! Um—er…" I rack my brains as speedily as possible. "Mary and Proctor go to court in this one. At the start we find Martha Corey being tried, and we meet Judge Danforth. And Hathorne." I'll leave pieces for other people.

"Good. Jonathan, next." He's going around the circle, but not in order.

Jonathan pushes his glasses up his bruised nose. "Mary Warren assures the court that she and the girls were pretending. 'Pretense,' she calls it. Danforth agrees to see Proctor's evidence, which was papers signed by ninety-one people, with each declaring a good opinion of each Rebecca Nurse, Elizabeth Proctor, and Martha Corey. A testament of sorts."

Mr. Spade nods. "Fantastic detail." I'm stunned Jonathan had chosen to absorb so much. "But, of course, Danforth decides that all ninety-one people who signed should be arrested for examination. So, all to no avail." He scans the room. "Something else. Luke?"

Luke grunts. "Elizabeth's pregnant."

We all can't help but laugh. If he'd read it at all, that's the sort of thing Luke would pick up.

"Important," Mr. Spade warns. "Though it's doubted, we've established that fact that Elizabeth never lies. Or so Proctor claims. Very, very essential to know for later."

He stares at us all. "Anything else?" Silence. He sighs again. "I suppose you nailed down the most important stuff. Good enough. So right now, we'll start after Judge Danforth's speech, in which he addresses the girls and brings Mary's testimony before them. He says to confess to the lie. And then asks Abigail to rise and if Mary's statement is the truth. Go on ahead, Ames."

Finally! "'No, sir.'" Ah, that felt good.

Barney Moore is Danforth. And he's not bad, but not good. "'Children, a very augur bit will now be turned into your souls until your honesty is proved. Will either of you change your positions now, or do you force me to hard questioning?'"

I glower. "'I have naught to change, sir. She lies.'"

To Mary, from Danforth. "'You would still go on with this?'"

"'Aye, sir!'"

After this, more discussion about the voodoo doll/poppet/thing follows, along with Proctor revealing his thoughts that Abigail (me) intends to murder his wife. And that Abigail has burst out laughing during prayer before. A serious offense, which is quickly blamed on her being witched. The dancing in the woods is also brought to attention and confirmed. It seems like that happened such a long time ago.

Luke is still sucking it up as Parris, though. And just like that, Mary Warren is brought under hard questioning.

Judge Hathorne: "'You say you never saw no spirits, Mary, were never threatened of witchery or afflicted by any manifest of the Devil or the Devil's agents.'" Greedy man.

Mary: "'No, sir!'"

"'And yet, when people accused of witchery confronted you in court, you would faint, saying their spirits came out of their bodies and choked you—'"

I can tell this next part will be frustrating for most people. Mary interrupts the judge with, "'That were pretense, sir.'"

But of course, they want her to _repeat _it_,_ to say it louder. Danforth chides, "'I cannot hear you.'" Like hell you can't…

"'Pretense, sir.'"

Luke, woodenly, as nosy, conniving Parris. "'But you did turn cold, did you not? I myself picked you up many times, and your skin were icy. Mr. Danforth, you—'"

"'I saw that many times.'"

Jonathan clears his throat beside me, ready for his turn. "'She only pretended to faint, Your Excellency. They're all marvelous pretenders.'"

Hathorne: "'Then can she pretend to faint now?'"

Uh oh. I see how this pans out. Proctor: "'Now?'" I hope Mary can pull through, but she's not a very strong girl.

Mr. Spade groans to himself as Luke continues to stumble dumbly over words and be dead-toned. "'Why not? Now there are no spirits attacking her, for none in this room is accused of witchcraft. So let her turn herself cold now, let her pretend she is attacked now, let her faint.'" To Mary, a flat demand. "'Faint!'"

Mr. Spade is forced to stop us after this speech. He rubs his eyes and looks at the poor casting choice for Reverend Parris with pity. "Hey, Luke," he begins gently. "A suggestion. Pull head out of ass."

Unable to hold back, I howl with laughter. Luckily, everyone else does, too, so I don't embarrass myself. Out of the corner of my eye, even Jonathan bites back a thin smile. Crap, I'm tearing up. I'm the sort of laugh-'til-you-cry person.

Pull head out of… I CAN'T.

I bury my head into my elbow to cover my unladylike snorts.

Luke is blushing. Hard. And I swear I hear him crack his knuckles, but Mr. Spade smiles at him in a good-natured and encouraging way. It takes a while to get settled back down, but we do.

Mary Warren: "'Faint?'"

Luke's turn. We hold our breath. "'Aye, faint. Prove to us how you pretended in the court so many times.'" I want to applaud. Finally, I think it's sunk into his thick skull. You'd think at this age, you'd accept the fact that when you're _acting_, no one care's what you do or what you say or how you say it. Especially if people are involved with you.

Mary: "'I—cannot faint now, sir.'" Poor girl. She's trapped.

Jonathan mutters, "'Can you not pretend it?'" For Crane, he sounds just the littlest bit desperate.

"'I—I—have no sense of it now, I—'"

"'Might it be that here we have no afflicting spirits loose, but in the court there were some?'"

She sounds about ready to cry. I understand why this play can anger people. "'I never saw no spirits.'"

Parris continues to yell at her to confess that actual spirits made her faint. "'I—I used to faint because I—I thought I saw spirits.'"

Wrong thing to say; it just brings on a whole new wave of twisted words and tough questioning. So she thinks she saw spirits, but she didn't…

Barney turns to me, Abigail. "'Abigail. I bid you now search your heart and tell me this—and beware of it, child, to God every soul is precious and His vengeance is terrible on them that take life without cause. Is it possible, child, that the spirits you have seen are illusion only, some deception that may cross your mind when—?'"

I smile wanly and say nervously, "'Why, this—this—is a base question, sir.'"

"'Child, I would have you consider it—'"

I cry out, "'I have been hurt, Mr. Danforth; I have seen my blood runnin' out! I have been near to murdered every day because I done my daily pointing out the Devil's people—and this is my reward? To be mistrusted, denied, questioned like a—'" She really believes this. She's delusional!

Danforth weakens. Sap. "'Child, I do not mistrust you—'"

I seethe and threaten dangerously, gleefully, "'Let _you_ beware, Mr. Danforth. Think you to be so mighty that he power of Hell may not turn your wits? Beware of it! There is—'" I cut off with a gasp, looking around wildly in fear, relishing the next few moments.

"'What is it, child?'"

The most miraculous thing happens to me. I hug myself. And being to shiver, _literally _shiver, with my teeth chattering. My voice is breathy, weak, trembling. "'I—I know not. A wind, a cold wind, has come.'"

Christ, I can't believe it! I'm _freezing._

Mary Warren: "'Abby!'"

Mercy Lewis joins in, but not to my extent. "'Your Honor, I freeze!'" Destiny, in the role, tries to copy me. And fails.

_Bam._ Jonathan turns to look at me, I see. My lips are numb. Have I actually convinced myself that I'm cold? Jonathan, collected Jonathan, is taken by surprise and uncertainty at my acting, at my shivering and teeth chattering. It's hard to fake, he knows. And it's obvious he feels contempt for Abigail's character.

Maybe I've convinced him. "'They're pretending,'" he reads coldly, but looks at me doubtfully, wary of my involvement.

Hathorne: "'She is cold, Your Honor, touch her.'" Nah. I'm just numb.

And like that, the smallest threat, the girls have turned on Mary. More join in, before I continue pitifully, still shaking, with, "'It is a wind, a wind!'" I gasp at the air desperately, like a starving woman.

"'Abby, don't do that!'" Mary begs.

Danforth, believing Abigail. "'Mary Warren, do you witch her? I say to you, do you send your spirit out?'"

Mr. Spade reads, "'With a hysterical cry, Mary Warren starts to run. Proctor catches her.'"

She begs, "'Let me go, Mr. Proctor, I cannot, I cannot—'"

This is it! This is the climax! I throw my head to heaven and cry, "'Oh, Heavenly Father, take away this shadow!'"

Stage directions, read loudly and energetically by Mr. Spade, building it up. "'Without warning or hesitation, Proctor leaps at Abigail and, grabbing her by the hair, pulls her to her feet. She screams in pain. Danforth, astonished, cries, 'What are you about?' And Hathorne and Parris call, 'Take your hands off her!' and out of it all comes Proctor's roaring voice.'"

Jonathan knows he can't disappoint. He doesn't. "'How do you call Heaven! Whore! Whore!'"

The class sits in stunned silence, than shocked giggles break out. Jonathan clears his throat and _flushes_ angrily, but decides to power on despite.

"'John!'"

"'Man! Man, what do you—'"

Jonathan storms, breaking composure. "'It is a whore!'" I like how he calls her "it."

Barney, as Danforth, gasps, "'You charge—?'"

I sob, gasping innocently, but still defeated as I beg, "'Mr. Danforth, he is lying!'" It tears from my throat.

Crane, beside me, quiets. "'Mark her! Now she'll suck a scream to stab me with, but—'"

Danforth booms, "'You will prove this! This will not pass!'"

And then, in a voice so soft that the whole room has to strain to hear it, Jonathan admits, "'I have known her, sir. I have known her.'"

It's my turn to blush in horror, and I duck my head. Yikes, it's like he's just confirmed the rumors going around. The whispering's already picking up. Imbeciles.

Danforth, in shock: "'You—you are a lecher?'"

Francis Nurse: "'John, you cannot say such a—'"

"'Oh, Francis, I wish you had some evil in you that you might know me!'" To Danforth. "'A man will not cast away his good name. You surely know that.'"

Yick, we get to go into details. But you can tell there's an odd sort of curiosity burning through us all about this. We have been completely pulled in. Judge Danforth asks, "'In—in what time? In what place?'"

Jonathan loses his fire, spent and amazed that he'd let himself go earlier. "'In the proper place—where my beasts are bedded. On the last night of my joy, some eight months past. She used to serve me in my house, sir. A man may think God sleeps, but God sees everything. I know it now. I beg you, sir, I beg you—see her what she is. My wife, my dear good wife, took this girl soon after, sir, and put her out on the highroad. And being what she is, a lump of vanity, sir—Excellency, forgive me, forgive me. She thinks to dance with me on my wife's grave! And well she might, for I thought of her softly. God help me, I lusted, and there _is_ a promise in such sweat. But it is a whore's vengeance, and you must see it; I set myself entirely in your hands. I know you must see it now.'"

It's all out.

Danforth asks Abigail, "'Do you deny every scrap and tittle of this?'"

I angrily seethe, clenching my fists and throwing a fit. "'If I must answer that, I will leave and I will not come back again!'"

Proctor steps forward to beg for his wife's innocence. Apparently, Danforth gives Abigail a "look," because my next line is suspicious and offended. "'What look do you give me? I'll not have such looks!'"

Torn, Danforth commands her to stay put. And like Mr. Spade warned us earlier, Elizabeth's apparent inability to lie comes back to haunt us. They're going to bring his wife in. For questioning. Abigail and Proctor are forced to turn around, and no one in the room can hint or speak. When she comes into the court, Elizabeth's not even allowed to look at John.

Elizabeth, however, especially when read by Summer, is an expert at dancing around the question.

Finally, after a series of different forms of said question, Danforth gives it to her straight. "'Look at me! To your own knowledge, has John Proctor ever committed the crime of lechery?'" She fails to speak. "'Answer my question!'" Barney roars. "'Is your husband a lecher!'"

Even Summer manages to faintly lie, "'No, sir.'"

I wince and curse aloud. "Damn."

They're going to believe her over Proctor.

Danforth: "'Remove her, Marshal!'"

Proctor: "'Elizabeth, tell the truth!'"

"'She has spoken. Remove her!'"

Then the line, Jonathan reading, that breaks my heart. "'Elizabeth, I have confessed it!'"

"'Oh, God!'" Summer wails.

"Okay, class. Stop for a minute here," Mr. Spade interrupts, shifting around in his desk. He gives us all a serious look. "Understand what's going on?"

"Yeah. They're all screwed," someone comments.

"Yep," I agree under my breath. I despise Abigail now.

"Keep it up, guys. Almost done."

It is confirmed that Proctor is a "liar." Hale beings to call Abigail fake, when (because the main turmoil is past) I get to screech, "'You will not! Begone! Begone, I say!'"

The adults panic as (as the directions read) the girls huddle together and point up and look at the ceiling. "'Girls! Why do you—?'"

But the matter of Mary Warren testifying against them still remains a problem. Destiny, as Mercy Lewis, reads, "'It's on the beam! Behind the rafters!'"

"'Where?'"

"'Why? —'" I begin, and swallow thickly. Gulping. "'Why do you come, yellow bird?'"

Proctor, indignant and shamed. "'Where's a bird? I see no bird!'"

"'My face? My face?'" I whimper out, terrified.

"'Mr. Hale—'" Proctor insists.

"'Be quiet!'" Danforth snaps.

"'Do _you_ see a bird?'" I think it's a fair question.

Again. "'Be quiet!'"

I beg like the lump of vanity Abigail is. "'But God made my face; you cannot want to tear my face.'" She really thinks she's having a conversation with the yellow bird. "'Envy is a deadly sin, Mary,'" I warn.

"'Abby!'" Mary pleads. We're about to throw her to the sharks.

I keep talking to the "bird." "'Oh, Mary, this is a black art to change your shape. No, I cannot, I cannot stop my mouth; it's God's work I do!'"

"'Abby, I'm _here_!'"

After Proctor tries and fails again, I keep begging. "'Oh, please, Mary! Don't come down!'"

Susanna Walcott's turn. "'Her claws, she's stretching her claws!'"

"'Lies, lies.'"

"'Mary, please, don't hurt me!'" I cry.

Mary tells Danforth, breaking, "'I'm not hurting her!'"

"'Why does she see this vision?'" Danforth demands.

"'She sees nothin'!'"

Poor, poor Mary. No one's going to believe her now. Superstitious bastards. It just makes you angry, makes you sick. But it gets worse. The girls start to mimic her, as I do. "'She sees nothin'!'"

Mary: "'Abby, you mustn't!'"

All the girls in class somehow get it together in time enough to repeat in unison, "'Abby, you mustn't!'"

"'I'm here, I'm here!'"

The girls: "'I'm here, I'm here!'" All they're trying to do is push her to her breaking point. It's working.

And so it continues for a few pages, occasionally broken by Judge Danforth or Proctor yelling completely different things at her, one accusing and one scolding yet encouraging. They and the girls push Mary until she cracks.

I scream, "'Look out! She's coming down!'"

Stage directions. Mr. Spade reads, "'She and all the girls run to one wall, shielding their eyes. And now, as though cornered, they let out a gigantic scream, and Mary, as though infected, opens her mouth and screams with them. Gradually, Abigail and the girls leave off, until only Mary is left there, staring up at the 'bird,' screaming madly. All watch her, horrified by this evident fit. Proctor strides to her.'"

"'Mary, tell the Governor what they—'"

Mr. Spade: "'He as hardly got a word out, when, seeing him coming for her, she rushes out of his reach, screaming in horror.'"

"'Don't touch me—don't touch me!'"

Proctor's shocked. "'Mary!'"

"'You're the Devil's man!'"

John Proctor is stopped in his tracks.

Parris: "'Praise God!'"

The girls: "'Praise God!'"

"'Mary, how—?'"

"'I'll not hang with you! I love God, I love God!'"

Barney bawls, "'He bid you do the Devil's work?'"

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Not John. I want to slam a fist into the wall. This play will not have a happy ending. Mary Warren lays it all out on Proctor, telling the court he came to her by night and day to make her sign the Devil's book.

Peer pressure. According to Mary, he recruited her to overthrow the court. Proctor pleads with Hale. Eventually, Mary rushes back to Abby and the girls, and Abby in all her goodness and charity takes her back, embracing her.

I groan.

Danforth confronts Proctor. "'What are you? You are combined with the anti-Christ, are you not? I have seen your power; you will not deny it! What say you, Mister?'"

Hale: "'Excellency—'"

Danforth, by Barney, scolds, "'I will have nothing from you, Mr. Hale!'" Speaking again to Proctor. "'Will you confess yourself befouled with Hell, or do you keep that black allegiance yet? What say you?'"

Jonathan's eyes are strangely bright. "'I say—I say—God is dead!'"

I hold my breath. Why does he sound so…gleeful?

"'Hear it, hear it!'" Parris barks. Yay for Luke.

High on energy, Jonathan continues, "'A fire, a fire is burning! I hear the boot of Lucifer, I see his filthy face! And it is my face, and yours, Danforth! For them that quail to bring men out of ignorance, as I have quailed, and as you quail now when you know in all your black hearts that this be fraud—God damns our kind especially, and we will burn, we will burn together!'"

Danforth roars, "'Marshal! Take him and Corey with him to jail!'"

I want to cheer Hale on, because he exclaims, "'I denounce these proceedings!'"

Jonathan, in the heat of the moment. Damn, he's _out_ of his _own_ character. "'You are pulling Heaven down and raising up a whore!'"

Hale: "'I denounce these proceedings, I quit this court!'"

Danforth runs after him, calling, "'Mr. Hale! Mr. Hale!'"

"'The curtain falls,'" Mr. Spade finishes.

We put our books away, thinking hard and thoroughly depressed. No one's talking. Quietly, we put our desks back into straight rows and sit. Remembering something, I pull the permission sheet from my bag and flatten it out on my desk. I need to get this in to him.

Mr. Spade walks to the front of the room while holding something behind his back; he'd gone and rummaged through his desk drawers first. He coughs. "You have another reading assignment. We _will_ be finishing this tomorrow. You need to read pages 116-128 at home."

I write it down in my mind.

"Now, we have about seven minutes of class time left, and I can see that reading the play has left you all in a state of complete seriousness. I am not cruel enough to let you leave this classroom sad. So," he brings out what's behind his back. A large, plastic bag of…rubber bands? "A rubber band war. You'll get five apiece. When the bell rings, pick up five and put them on my desk. Then you can leave."

My eyes widen, thoughts exploding, as Mr. Spade walks up and down the rows and passes out the rubber bands. Excited and confused murmurs rise up. But he passes Luke by, who protests. I bet he's collected them from the newspapers the schools gets every week.

When he's finished, he stops by Luke's desk again and reaches into his pants' pocket, and pulls out what—I swear to God—is the world's largest rubber band. Two inches across and sturdily thick; it could've slipped over my head without being stretched.

"You, Luke, get the Big Hoss, because of your acting breakthrough today," Mr. Spade says proudly. He's one whacky guy. I shake my head.

Luke immediately seizes the rubber band monstrosity with a wide, dumb grin. I sit back and watch as Luke loops it around and through his fingers in a gun-like fashion and stands up. He aims at the far wall and releases. It goes backward and smacks him in the face with a _snap!_ He gives a cry and falls to the floor, holding his face.

The class roars with laughter. He gets off the floor and shows us the red welt across his forehead. We laugh harder. And then the chaos erupts.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I snatch up my rubber bands and run to a corner of the room to take cover. Rubber bands whiz past my head. I notice that the most common method of firing them is making a finger gun. I'm actually quite good at simply launching it off my thumb the old-fashioned way.

Laughter and yells fill the room. From my corner, I see that Jonathan has remained firmly seated in his desk. He doesn't want to trifle himself with such a silly activity. As he reads his thick book, rubber bands flop harmlessly off his face and back; he ignores them.

Wow. I look away and spot that Destiny, Summer, and most of the girls had reduced to simply chucking the rubber bands weakly at people while hiding behind the boys. I roll my eyes.

I use four of my five rubber bands, and shoot Summer, Destiny, Luke, and Mr. Spade, all the while smiling happily. Every one is a precise hit, but my thumb still throbs.

Crane gets up from his seat and waits by the door, his back to those who are running around, diving, and causing mayhem. He's too good for us. He certainly thinks so. I creep closer to him, ducking flying rubber bands and looking at the clock. One minute to go. One rubber band left, perching precariously on my thumb. He's turned away from me, unable to see behind him. Unguarded. Vulnerable.

I smile wickedly and take aim at his back. I can't miss at this range. Dead center of his back is where I will hit. I stretch the band back, back, back…and let go.

I miss. Not his body, but his back. It drops lower than intended, an accident, and snaps sharply against his backside. I'm a warrior goddess.

Crane smacks a hand over the struck spot, whips around, and glares at me. While getting the feeling of being reduced to a pile of smoking ash by lightning, I clap a hand over my mouth and choke to death on my own laughter.

The bell rings, and I grab five rubber bands from the floor and my permission slip. I dump them on the messy surface of Mr. Spade's desk and run out the door, in order to escape Jonathan's wrath. If he were to catch me, I might not live to see tomorrow.

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><p><strong>AN: *peeps between fingers* Okay, as you can clearly see…..I lied. We in fact did NOT finish _The Crucible _in this chapter. It would've been way too long. So next chapter, we're going to finish up the school year, watch _The Silence of the Lambs,_ and have the spring concert. Unless something changes.**

**Ames' experience with _The Crucible_, her coldness, is based on what actually happened to me when we were reading it out loud in class. The court scene, because we switched parts around in class so much, was the only time I got to read for Abigail. And I made the most of it. At the line about the cold wind coming, I really, truly started to shiver, and my voice was shaking. Just like I was freezing. I remember my teacher giving me funny looks. But it was one of the strangest experiences of my life.**

**So, to top it all off, I have been stalking set photos and trailers and clips from _The Avengers_, coming May 4th. So close but so far…I hope Loki kicks some serious ass. I've also been stalking _The Dark Knight Rises_; the trailer has over 10,000,000 views on youtube. I'm sure that at least 5,641,390 of those views belong to me.**

**Question of the Day: What is the strangest band name or musical artist's name that you've ever heard?  
><strong>

**Funny lines? Good stuff? I WANNA KNOW! I try to get back to everybody, so it's in your best interest to leave a REVIEW. Fave 'n run…...not a fan :D**

**Until next time.**


	16. Of Sunshine and the Good Doctor

**A/N: So here it is. Finally. Attention, you guys. I need to say something. I can't have a dedicated update date anymore. School and home stuff have been piling up. I'll do my best, but with how overwhelmed I am, these updates keep coming later and later. Don't want to disappoint anyone.**

**My method of writing includes scrawling the chapter out in a notebook, typing it up from that, printing it out, editing that, and making the corrections on Microsoft Word so it's publishable. I'm sorry if nothing's perfect. But that's why it takes so long to get a chapter up. I like writing in a notebook because I can do it on the go.**

**On another note, my Loki/OC fic hasn't made any progress. Will not be up for a while.**

**I'll be tackling the end of school in this chapter. SPOILER ALERT! If none of you have seen _The Silence of the Lambs,_ this can ruin it. Skip those parts if you must. And the spring concert happens. Just a heads up, if you want to hear ****Ames****' song, it's "Wicked Game" by Chris Issak. But based more on HIM's cover. Look it up if you wish.**

**I was given plenty of strange band names. The ones I've heard that take the cake are **The Butthole Surfers, iwrestledabearonce, The Itchyworms, Feed the Head, The Toadies, The Flying Burrito Brothers, 30 Odd Foot Grunts, Strawberry Alarm Clock, Throbbing Gristles, **and **Squirrel Nut Zippers.

**Thanks to **Wafia Primo, SladeRavenFan, AylaAbbs, Arlena4815162342, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, forgetmenotflowers, linnie kinda spinnie, CD, pourquoibella, LittleMissAngel, Comidia Del Arte, My Purple Skies, Mary Downpour, Zetsubel, LuminousFaith, thexdarkestxnightsx, Evax40, Michelle Myers, Emily Nigma, Silential, **and** xxthethieflordxx **for the reviews. You rock my world. ALL of you who read this story.**

**Disclaimer: Yeesh, I have to give up ownership of EVERYTHING in this chapter. Ahem. I do not own Chris Issak's "Wicked Game", _The Silence of the Lambs, The Crucible, Batman Begins,_ or _The Dark Knight._Or Jonathan.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen: Of Sunshine and the Good Doctor<strong>

_You keep alive a moment at a time,_

_But still inside, a whisper to a liar._

_To sacrifice, but knowing to survive._

_The first to find another state of mind._

_~**Foo Fighters, Walk**_

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><p>I groan and let my head fall forward to hit the lunch table. Crane scowls up at me from one of his many thick books, but doesn't ask. I don't think he's forgiven me for the whole rubber band incident yet. And that was yesterday. He sure knows how to hold a grudge.<p>

Today…today is Wednesday the 13th. My frustration, my drama, is simply stemming from the fact that there is literally a full week until school gets out and the spring concert happens. So close to summer, but so damn far.

I peel my forehead off the tabletop and instead stare moodily out the glass doors. I really have no reason to be complaining. I mean, things will come when they will come. But it's all just starting to me. Summer vacation…and then senior year…and then college. Something I don't even want to begin thinking about.

_Bye-bye, Jonathan. I'll probably never see you again._

I'm amazed at how much the idea bothers me.

Nothing else should be; everything is falling into place. I'd had my first rehearsal last night, with the band. We went at the song for three hours. And it's turning out to be quite good. We've got another scheduled for Saturday afternoon and possibly Tuesday night. Mr. Burgess, I think, would actually kill me if I brought the guys to school to practice first period. I won't chance it.

Anyway, like I was saying, we'll be finishing up _The Crucible_ today and then watching _The Silence of the Lambs_ for fun next week. Somehow, even with all the rehearsing last night, I'd managed to finish our reading assignment. Things are coming to a close in all concepts, all directions. All is coming together. I repeat myself.

Now, if only the weather would cooperate. This past week and a few days before, it's remained colder, and the sky had retreated into a gray depression. It's the month of May—the mid-month of May—and nothing's even started blooming yet.

Maybe school getting out will awaken the weather.

One week.

I start sulking again and peer out into the drab grayness with a sigh.

Jonathan gives my noisiness a generally disapproving look. He's like a mother hen…

I stare gloomily out the glass doors and announce, "The sun's gone. It's disappeared for good." I push my full lunch tray aside.

Jonathan pushes his glasses up his nose out of habit, and shockingly, joins me in my pondering of the weather, giving the sky a once-over.

His voice takes on a thoughtful edge. "No. It hasn't. It's simply hiding from this godforsaken city. It's shining somewhere else, a better place." I hadn't actually expected him to join in but…that just flowed off his tongue so beautifully, and there'd been truth in every word.

I blink twice. And smirk. "Wow, Jonathan. I never thought you were the poetic type."

He stiffens. "I'm not."

I roll my eyes and wave a hand. "Then what was that?"

"A casual observation."

It's so entertaining to poke fun at him. I snicker. "Sure," I say sarcastically. As I respond with that, I throw in a little half-smile, a couple of quick nods, and—God forbid—a light wink.

He looks scandalized.

_Not flirting. Am NOT flirting…_

It's his turn to put me on the spot. Oh, lunchroom banter.

Crane closes his heavy tome and folds his arms across the top of it. It's not Jung's _The Psychology of Fear;_ I think he's finished that one already. How scary…I don't like to be reminded of just how big his brain is. Compared to mine, it would be like placing a peanut next to a watermelon.

"You said you'd tell me a story sometime. You've neglected it."

"Nope. Not yet." I shut him off as I get up to empty my tray. He follows, and after, we stroll into the hallway together. After he picks up his books, of course.

As usual, I try to start a competition by speed-walking and beating him to our lockers. He's laden down with books and can barely see over the stack. I hope he hits his growth spurt soon.

I get to the lockers five strides ahead of him. "I win," I challenge childishly.

He snorts derisively. "For no special reason."

I place my hands on my hips. "Well, my legs are a lot longer than yours are," I point out defiantly. I tower over him.

Does the word "duh" have an expression? If it does, that's the look Crane just gave me. But I swear I see his eyes flicker down partway before snapping back up to my face. Another glare at my silliness.

I wince. "I'm getting the impression you're frustrated with me."

"You don't say."

Shaking my head at my own immaturity, I stalk across the hallway to stand at my locker. I don't need to grab my books for Home Ec. next period, but Jonathan obviously wants me away from him for a bit. Even _he_ has a tolerance for me.

"Okay, yep. I'll just mind my own business from _all the way over here,_" I say extra-loudly.

Insert corny thumbs-up here.

I'm ignored. Promptly. The bell rings.

Jonathan stares straight ahead and walks past me, rounding that corner to send him down another hallway to his next class. The hallway is being filled to the brim with chattering students.

"_Crane es loco,_" I mutter to myself.

It takes me about five seconds to realize _Paul_ is trying to fight his way to me, with odd little squeaks and grunts as the short kid is jostled.

And off I go. I hope someone steps on his toes and severs them.

I dart in the direction opposite where Jonathan has gone and lose him. Thank my lucky stars Crane hadn't seen that. I would've opened myself to further pestering. And making more promises of stories to come.

In Home Economics class today, I get to take that fleece jacket of mine home. Mrs. Tomalin finally graded it. Despite the fact that it's way overdue, I'd managed to secure a solid 96 percent.

Not bad for a girl who's not into this sort of thing. I slip the miserable thing on. It's fuzz and a pastel shade of light blue. Periwinkle, almost. I guess it had been the only bluish color the catalog had to offer. Still too much purple. Gross. But I wear it to American History anyway.

I've got to admit, that class passes in a blur. We _do _finish up _The Crucible_. But I'd been lying a bit earlier. Driven on by my curiosity, I'd finished the play…and had hated myself for doing that for about ten minutes.

So, bored to death, I sit there and space out as we read the play aloud for the last time. Abigail is no longer involved—her character doesn't come in, I mean—and I already know how it ends….and it's depressing. Let me tell you.

And besides, the more I can shut out Summer's self-absorbed, irritating-to-the-point-of-self-destruction voice, the better. A lot of the act is Elizabeth and John Proctor—at the point of death—going back and forth.

So I don't pay attention, mainly because I don't want to face the ending. It's one of those _so close, so close_ endings, only to leave you devastated as it runs away laughing.

I don't need to go through it again. I literally cried for a while after I'd finished it. Mom even came upstairs to ask what was wrong. And, as our worsening relationship shows, she'd been ignored.

I'm such a horrible person.

_On the plus side,_ I muse as I draw a nonsensical doodle onto the notebook page before me, _I've rounded up a few suggestions for jobs._ At the band practice last night, at the end (of course), I had mustered the courage to ask Don if he knew of any _safe_ job opportunities in Gotham. To my great astonishment, he'd smiled and listed off about six different ones. And most of them were just simple little things, but that's all right. As long as they're safe, with no chances of running into Falcone or any of his goons.

Shelving books in the Gotham Community Library is looking very likely. It sounds so peaceful… Safe. Not risky.

And Don…Don seems like such a nice guy. A punk, but…

I stiffen in my seat. Whoa. Eight year age difference, remember? That's weird. Since when have I started noticing boys?

_Since you became friends with Jonathan,_ my mind betrays.

I nearly palm myself in the forehead. God, some days I wish I'd never changed for the better, believe it or not. I was so immune to the male species…until I met Crane, officially. Not that I approve of romantic relationships in high school (waste of time, a distraction), but I'm noticing…boys. Christ.

It's official; I'm a female after all. And I've just realized it. I quietly groan, holding my hands up to my face. The lightbulb turning on inside my head is too bright. It makes my eyes water.

Shit, I have hormones!

Why am I so devastated by this news? I knew it was coming. Maybe I owe something to Crane now…I should kill him. Grrr.

Ahem, so, so far what we've covered in this class's reading is learning the fate of Giles Corey and more. Giles Corey, refusing to confess to the charge of witchcraft, was pressed to death with stones. Big stones. He wouldn't say yes or no to the accusation, simply saying, "More weight," before dying. A horrible, terrible way to go.

We've passed the first initial conversation between Proctor and his wife, the day of the hanging. She's been sent to him, urging him to confess and to save his own life. I've shut out most of that conversation between them, mainly because I absolutely _cannot_ stand Summer's overdramatic, wailing voice. The only heartfelt attempt she makes at reading is when Elizabeth blames herself for John's lechery, saying that a cold wife prompts it.

After much begging, at long last, Proctor confesses.

"'I want my life,'" he says. Knowing it won't last, I allow myself to rejoice momentarily, before killing it. He's still uncertain.

But he's being forced to write his confession down, and the word is quickly being spread. He asks why it needs to be written.

Danforth, the evil bastard, explains, "'Why, for the good instruction of the village, Mister; this we shall post upon the church door!'" To Parris. "'Where is the marshal?'"

A while later, Proctor is under questioning again. "'Did you see the Devil?'" Danforth asks.

"'I did.'"

Luke shouts, "'Praise God!'" Oh, Parris. He seems to be turning into a confused man. He's been shaken up, unsure of where he stands. I can still find it in my small heart to feel pity toward him. A miracle.

Danforth: "'And when he comes to you, what were his demand?'" Proctor hesitates. "'Did he bid you to do his work upon the earth?'"

"'He did.'"

On and on it goes, and those who have refused to confess enter. Rebecca Nurse. She learns of his confession and scolds him, "'Oh, John—God send his mercy on you!'"

Just as it does to me, I'm sure this rips Proctor up inside, more than just a little. And, showing no care for the old woman, Barney, as the judge, asks her for the last time, "'I say, will you confess yourself, Goody Nurse?'"

No chance in hell, buster. She answers, "'Why, it is a lie, it is a lie; how may I damn myself? I cannot, I cannot!'"

And…Proctor begins to have a change of heart.

Danforth changes his attention back to Proctor. "'Mr. Proctor. When the Devil came to you did you see Rebecca Nurse in his company? Come, man, take courage—did you see her with the Devil?'"

Jonathan reads off the response, so quietly, "'No.'"

He's unfolding. I cross my arms over my chest and wince. Don't I know it.

Danforth smells trouble and gets suspicious. "'Did you ever see her sister, Mary Easty, with the Devil?'"

"'No, I did not.'"

"'Did you ever see Martha Corey with the Devil?'"

"'I did not.'"

Crap. Well. The light dawns on Judge Danforth. "'Did you ever see anyone with the Devil?'"

Again. "'I did not.'" As I already know, he's digging his own…grave.

Danforth. God, I want to hit him. "'Proctor, you mistake me. I am not empowered to trade your life for a lie. You have most certainly seen some person with the Devil.'" Silence. "'Mr. Proctor, a score of people have already testified they saw this woman with the Devil.'"

A cutting remark. "'Then it is proved. Why must I say it?'"

My mind fills in the blank before it's actually said. _Because he's a douche…_

More discussion on this, and Proctor still refuses to condemn Rebecca Nurse, saying that she never thought she was doing the Devil's work

Hale puts an end to it all, as Neil finally gets to come in. "'Excellency, it is enough he confess himself. Let him sign it, let him sign it.'"

Parris agrees. "'It is a great service, sir. It is a weighty name; it will strike the village that Proctor confess. I beg you, let him sign it! The sun is up, Excellency.'"

Now, reading it for the second time, I realize that this means that things need to happen quickly, decisions need to be made. "'Come, then, sign your testimony. Give it to him.'" Proctor doesn't look at it. "'Come, man, sign it.'"

And then the part comes where I want to shoot myself…and Proctor. And the rest of the cast. "'You have all witnessed it;—it is enough.'"

"'You will not sign it?'"

Barney snaps, "'Do you sport with me? You will sign your name or it is no confession, Mister!'"

Proctor signs it.

Parris: "'Praise God!'"

"Shut up," I grouse under my breath. The hypocrite! He wants Proctor to be alive. Jonathan shoots me a look, completely unaffected (emotionally, anyway) by his part in the play. He doesn't live it like I do.

Mr. Spade reads more stage directions. "'Proctor has just finished signing when Danforth reaches for the paper. But Proctor snatches it up, and now a wild terror is rising in him, and a boundless anger.'"

Danforth, extending a hand. "'If you please, sir.'"

Damnit, I'm tearing up. I already _know_ what happens, and I'm still responding this way. The air in the classroom seems to get heavier.

"'No,'" Proctor insists.

The judge doesn't understand. "'Mr. Proctor, I must have—'"

"'No, no. I have signed it. You have seen me. It is done! You have no need for this!'"

Luke interrupts, on the verge of relapsing to his old tonelessness. I'm too distraught to care now. "'Proctor, the village must have proof that—'"

Jonathan cuts him off. "'Damn the village! I confess to God, and God has seen my name on this! It is enough!'"

Danforth: "'No, sir, it is—'"

"'You came to save my soul, did you not? Here! I have confessed myself; it is enough!'"

I can feel his escalating desperation. It burns. Life is not fair. Everyone in class seems to know which direction this is headed, for they all have a very depressed look on their faces. Even Destiny has lost some of her general snottiness. The conclusion is soon. _Oh god…_

"'You have not con—'" Don't you dare say it!

"'I have confessed myself!'" Yes, we know that. "'Is there no good penitence but it be public? God does not need my name nailed upon the Church. God sees my name; God knows how black my sins are! It is enough!'" And it should be.

"Mr. Proctor—'"

He begs and begs and is given nothing. No matter what the character of Danforth claims, John Proctor would've been used.

"'Beguile me not!'" Jonathan reads. "'I blacken all of them when this is nailed to the Church the very day they hang for silence.'" His guilt is overwhelming. Lying, while weaker and more godly souls hang for their innocence. He won't take it; he _doesn't._

"'Mr. Proctor, I must have good and legal proof that you—'"

He knows he's doing something crazy and self-destructive. And so, Proctor struggles on. "'No, it not the same! What others say and what I sign to is not the same!'"

As Danforth, Barney reads, "'Why? Do you mean to deny this confession when you are free?'"

"'I mean to deny nothing!'"

"'Then explain to me, Mr. Proctor, why you will not that—'"

My brow furrows as I watch Crane read the next part. It's supposed to be with a cry of his whole soul, but he doesn't do it. He can't make himself believe it; he can't make it that intense. My heart thunders. Here it is. All comes crashing down.

"'Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!'"

And Danforth…you wicked, wicked man. "'Is that document a lie? If it is a lie, I will not accept it! What say you? I will not deal in lies, Mister!'" Proctor is motionless. Danforth, you self-righteous fool! "'You will give me your honest confession in my hand, or I cannot keep you from the rope.'" No reply. "'Which way do you go, Mister?'"

I press both hands to my mouth and let my head fall forward, with watery eyes, as Mr. Spade reads it. "'His breast heaving, his eyes staring, Proctor tears the paper and crumples it, and he is weeping in fury, but erect.'"

Goddamn it all. I look up again and bite my trembling lip. My breathing is shaky.

"'Marshall!'" Danforth calls.

Parris: "'Proctor, Proctor!'"

Neil, desperate as Hale. "'Man, you will hang! You cannot!'"

Everything has fallen apart as Proctor explains, "'I can. And there's your first marvel, that I can. You have made your magic now, for now I do think I see some shred of goodness in John Proctor. Not enough to weave a banner with but white enough to keep it from such dogs.'" To Elizabeth. "'Give them no tear! Tears pleasure them! Show honor now, show a stony heart and sink them with it!'"

Through all my despair of what'll happen next, I find myself thinking that Proctor's last words are good advice to live by. I also muse upon how happy Jonathan should be that we aren't acting anything out. He'd have to pick up Summer and kiss her at this point. Or at least hug her. Because Mr. Spade is unbelievably crazy that way.

Rebecca Nurse is relieved. "'Let you fear nothing! Another judgment wait us all!'"

Danforth spits, "'Hang them high over the town! Who weeps for these, weeps for corruption!'"

Proctor joins Rebecca and the others, and they are escorted to the noose. Elizabeth is left standing there.

Parris is fearful, and begs her, "'Go to him, Goody Proctor! There is yet time!'" You damned hypocrite. He turned good when times were most desperate. "'Go to him! Proctor! Proctor!'"

More drums.

Hale joins in. It peaks. "'Woman, plead with him! Woman, it is pride, it is vanity! Be his helper!—What profit him to bleed? Shall the dust praise him? Shall the worms declare his truth? Go to him, take his shame away!'"

And then Elizabeth Proctor breaks all our hearts. "'He have his goodness now. God forbid I take it from him!'"

The tears in my eyes spill over.

Mr. Spade finishes it for us. "'The final drumroll crashes, then heightens violently. Hale weeps in frantic prayer, and the new sun is pouring in upon her face, and the drums rattle like bones in the morning air.'" He pauses heavily. "'The curtain falls.'"

There are no words for what hangs about the room. Other than the ultimate sadness. I'm not the only one who's choked up; Neil and a few girls all have shiny eyes. Even Crane is a little gloomier than usual. He appears to be swimming in thought.

Mr. Spade leaves us be. No rubber band wars today; I'm sure it's the most disappointing ending any of us have ever run into. I vaguely hear him telling us that we'll finish up study on New England this week, and that we'll do _The Silence of the Lambs_ on Monday and Tuesday. The last day of school, we get out early, so it will be a day of games or something.

It feels like someone's pressed a film over my ears. Everything's clouded, and I'm getting lost in my own head right now.

The bell for the end of the day rings right as we all get our desks back into the normal, regular rows. I stack up all my books and rise, holding them in my arms. I'd left my schoolbag at home today.

I leave the classroom ahead of Jonathan. For some reason, I don't feel like sticking around to talk to him. I need to be on my own. Who knew that the ending of a freaking play could affect me this much?

I sense Jonathan a few feet behind me as I walk through hallways. It's almost as if he wants to say something. But I wander away, lost in my own head.

There's always tomorrow. And the day after.

* * *

><p>To tell you the truth, the next few days go by quickly. And suddenly, it's Friday. And that means the spring concert is drawing nearer and nearer. And the thought bugs me; I need someone other than the band or my mother there to support me.<p>

Maybe Jonathan could…nah he wouldn't.

He won't give up an evening of studying just to watch some silly starstruck girl sing her heart out. I'm not even that good, according to him.

_I thought he'd said in his note that he'd retracted that statement._

_Yeah, well. Doesn't mean he means it._

Stupid…warring…thoughts! At least they're keeping me distracted. For the past few days, we've done nothing in class, which gave Paul plenty of opportunities to strike up a conversation with me in Spanish. Which causes me to feel claustrophobic again. A feeling I haven't gotten in a long time, actually.

God, three more days of _this._

Luckily Kelly, who's too nice to leave me to the sharks and too nice to leave Paul all by his lonesome, distracts him, allowing me to break away and move toward the center of the room.

I spend the remainder of class listening to Summer and the girls take bets on whether or not the "relationship" between Crane and me would survive the summer. I just roll my eyes; it's all very amusing.

I notice that Naomi doesn't join in. Good girl.

I'd gotten little or no sleep last night (no worries; no crows were heard), so by the time I get to lunch, I'm literally nodding off.

"Screw food," I mumble, and head straight for the lunch table. Stupidly, when I get there, I lay my head down, because it feels so heavy. My eyelids flutter shut. So tired… The tabletop is cold, not a good pillow, but a resting place.

I don't know how it happens, but I fall asleep there at the lunch table.

A very, very short nap. Just a few moments later, a slim hand grabs my shoulder and gives it a hesitant shake.

"Damnit! Don't touch my pickles!" I screech, flailing my arms around me defensively for a brief moment before realizing where I am. His work done for the time being, Jonathan takes his seat across from me at the table as I drag my head up and look at him blearily. He'd been the one to wake me up. "Oh…oops. Did I…fall asleep?"

_NO, REALLY_, my mind mocks me.

Jonathan chooses not to humiliate me (pickles?) and simply responds, "Yes. For a moment, you did."

"Swell," I grumble in return. Jonathan starts eating some turkey and potatoes combo, hand going to flip open one of his books. I stare down at the table; it would be very awkward if I suddenly decided to watch him eat his lunch.

_Okay, then. Think about asking him to go to the spring concert._

I hesitate. Geez, I can't do it! Why do I have to be so damn nervous? I'm acting like I'm asking him to go to prom or something. He's a friend, isn't he? This should be _nothing_. Worst case scenario, he says no. Big whoop.

I don't wanna.

The minutes of the lunch period tick by, and I sit there, fighting with myself and torn by indecision. But eventually, I come through, and I decide to quit being a sissy and to get it out of the way.

"Jonathan, can I ask you something?"

"Yes." Right.

I reach up a hand and scratch the back of my head awkwardly. Gosh, how to put this? "Um, this is going to sound kinda weird, but as you probably know already, the school's spring concert is next Wednesday. And I want to tell you that I've got a solo." I pause for a breath. "I know you don't go to these things normally, but I'd like you to be there. I want you to be there."

At least I'm honest.

"You have a solo, you say?" I bob my head up and down proudly and power on before I hear the rest of his sentence, which is, "I'm unable to attend."

"Yeah, well I…wait…what?" Did he just say he couldn't do it? He can't be there?

He confirms it with an almost apologetic nod. "I'm unable to attend," he repeats.

I sit back in my chair and still manage to blush. I should've expected it, but it hurts. "I know it's none of my business, but why not?" I ask softly. Ah, depression. Rejection. My old friends. Whatever you want to call them.

Jonathan grows a bit…uncomfortable. "Grandmother," he explains simply, as if it's reason enough. And it is, except for the fact that I'm getting the oddest impression of being lied to.

"Well, shoot. It's okay."

In truth, I'm crushed. Stupid girl. Stupid high expectations. But he's lying! I just know it!

I leave it alone, heart heavy. I really shouldn't be feeling as disappointed as I am…but we all know how that goes. The thing that bothers me most of all is that Jonathan can't seem to meet my eyes, but there's no guilty expression on his face. He just doesn't want to go.

Crane knows I'm hurt, but does nothing to fix it. So maybe that's why, after a long period of notes and a lecture in American History, I don't stick around to chat with him again. I go straight home.

I get to my house in a bad mood, storming through the front door to jerkily hang my truck keys on the key ring next to it. I don't use it very often.

And once again, Mother is home early, doing paperwork at the dining room table, looking up angrily (albeit curiously) at my noisy entrance. I stomp up to my room. She says nothing.

Hello, weekend.

But, despite our disagreements, her motherly instinct kicks in, and she comes a-knocking about twenty minutes later. After straightening up the disarray I'd caused in all my rage at Jonathan and at the world, I open the door a crack and sit by it, so I can listen to her fret and keep her out of here at the same time.

"Nothing wrong," I pout. "Go 'way."

Call me a spoiled brat, please. She leaves, and I spend the next few hours in numbness, unable to believe my hate and rudeness toward her. Why can't I let go of things? I found out about her and Falcone almost a full month ago. And I thought Crane could hold a grudge…he pales in comparison to me. I. Am. A. Bitch.

Yes, even I can admit that. But as much as I think about it, I don't want to change. My name, "Ames," should mean "spoiled child," instead of what it does. Which brings to mind another question. My dad is Irish, obviously. So why isn't _my _name Irish, too? Huh.

If I can get over myself for a few minutes, maybe I'll ask my mother. I will not let her into my life, though. She's misplaced that trust. Forfeited it. Am I even justified?

"Dang," I comment to myself as I realize I have to go downstairs eventually. I do, retaining the thought that I need to nab _The Silence of the Lambs_ from the living room so I remember to bring it to school on Monday.

I manage to creep past Mom without making her look up. When I get back from the other room, VHS tape clutched to my chest, I stop stiffly at the bottom of the stairs, pausing before I go up them. Tough; it's now or never.

Again, to get it over with.

"Hey, Mom?"

No response. She's ignoring me. And has every right to.

"Mom?"

Finally, she acknowledges me. "Oh, so you want to talk to me now?"

Ignoring that, I stare at the floor. "Just something I randomly thought of. Why isn't my name Irish?"

Mom's pen moves across the planner in front of her. "I thought that would've been obvious. I named you."

Duh. But I haven't mentioned my middle name to anyone yet. "So, where the heck did 'Irvette' come from?" I winkle my nose in distaste at my middle name.

"_That's _Irish." Mom doesn't look up again. "That's your father's mother's name. Never met her."

I start to ascend the stairs. "Well, you sure know how to pick 'em," I scoff. "It's ugly." _Ames Irvette Manson._ That's me.

She lets the jab go but glances up at my retreating back with a puzzled frown, strawberry-blonde hair gleaming in the dim lighting of the dining room. "Where do you think you're going with that movie?"

_It's mine anyway; I don't know why you keep it down here,_ I silently respond. She never seems to accept the fact that turning seventeen officially means that you can watch (and own) movies that are rated "R." Mothers. Overprotective, overbearing mothers.

I spend as much of Saturday as I can at the band practice, so with that and with spending Sunday as a hermit, Monday comes slowly, but it comes.

Mom goes into work early, so I don't have to deal with her in the morning, and I'm vibrating with excitement as I walk into school later. _The Silence of the Lambs_ is tucked safely into my schoolbag.

Despite my small fit of loathing toward Jonathan remaining as a leftover of last Friday, I'm happy for him to see this Oscar-winning flick. True, he doesn't seem like much of a movie-goer, but I think he'll enjoy the psychological elements in this one. He'll probably have the whole case figured out by the end of it, too. He'd be able to do that. I had to watch the film four times before I understood any of it.

You can comprehend my excitement when fifth period comes.

When I enter the room, I'm amused by the sight of all our desks prearranged in a semicircle around the television and VCR hanging up in the corner of the room. Some of my angst toward him gone, I make sure to take a desk near Jonathan. I've got my reasons.

Other people come into the room, looking nervous. They all know what we're doing today, what we'll be watching. Some of the girls look a bit scared…oh please. Wimps. So unopen to watch anything other than romantic comedies. Close-minded. Unwilling to change.

Everything goes down rather quickly. Mr. Spade comes into the room and asks me for the VHS tape. I dig it out of my bag and say, "It's 118 minutes long. Two-day project."

Eh, he already knew that. A few last minute permission slips are handed in, and then three kids are sent to the library, due to their lack of forms. He's good at keeping track of those things.

Crane's still here. How did he get his…?

Oh. He probably forged it, without a care in the world.

I'm so slow, almost all the time. Speaking of which…hey. A wrapped piece of gum on the floor.

Everyone settles down, and Mr. Spade walks up to the TV after placing the forms on his desk. He pushed the tape in, and I smile, located just slightly behind Jonathan, but still as his side. The gum is Big Red. Fresh.

Forgetting everything between us, I lean forward and whisper, "Hey. Wouldn't you be normally studying or something instead? Why do you want to watch a movie?" My face burns, and I chomp the gum to generate more saliva.

"Everything is finished," Crane tells me curtly. I "hm" and leave us in semi-silence, chewing my gum a little louder than needed. Apparently, this gets on Jonathan's nerves, because he turns to the side slightly and whispers, "Will you _please_ stop masticating over your gum?"

I'm gone. I collapse into a fit of giggles and swallow said gum accidentally. _Can't breathe, I can't breathe!_

Jonathan looks appalled and scowls. "The term 'masticate' means 'to chew'."

I snicker. "My mind is going to dark places..."

He sighs. I try and fail to act mature.

"Shhh," Annie Bates says from somewhere up front. Sobering up instantly, I'm tempted to chuck my pencil at the back of her head.

"Geez, he's only fast-forwarding to the start," I complain quietly, to myself.

Jonathan makes a noise similar to a growl.

The jumpy, squiggly lines zooming all over the screen disappear as Mr. Spade stops the fast-forward, and the eerily calm theme of the movie shuts me up. A gray sky, like our weather in Gotham, and the titles flash up across the screen.

_Jodie Foster, _I read. _Anthony Hopkins. _I get goosebumps, and suddenly, we're watching young Clarice Starling running on the training course.

Truth be told, I've watched this film so many times that I've gotten my fair share of amusement from it. I know when to look up at my favorite parts, so most of the time, I just watch everyone watching the movie, to get their reactions. Crane, most of all.

He is leaning his chin into his interlaced fingers, watching the film intently, taking in every detail. Because that's how he is. Unlike me. I tend to give everyone a full-length commentary…while the movie is being watched. It annoys the crap out of people. But I can't help it. It's probably a good thing we are required to keep our mouths shut while viewing this in class. I'd be kicked out of the room.

Soon, I force myself to pay attention as Clarice arrives at Lecter's cell for the first time. It's definitely the greatest character entrance I've ever seen. Hannibal Lecter appears into view gradually, standing and waiting for her behind the glass wall of his cell. "Good morning," he greets her in that cultured voice. More gooseflesh on my arms.

"Dr. Lecter, my name is Clarice Starling. May I speak with you?" I settle back to watch the dynamic dialogue.

It's so perfect.

And a few minutes later, it becomes obvious why the permission sheets were needed. We reach the whole discussion between the Good Doctor and Clarice in which he asks what "Multiple Miggs" in cell next to his had hissed at her when she came in. Clarice tells him what he'd said.

I'll just come out with it and not leave you wondering. "I can smell your cunt," is what the loony had whispered to her. I feel myself and every girl in the room blush.

Then, frustrated with her lack of progress with Lecter, Clarice retreats past Miggs' cell. He's naked, back to us, on his cot. This is AWKWARD. Masturb—

I cover my face with my hands.

He hisses, "I bit my wrist…so I could die…. LOOK AT THE BLOOD!"

And Miggs flings something at her face, which is decidedly not blood.

We gasp. Jonathan's face is twisted in distaste. Mr. Spade coughs. Even now, I'm amazed at myself. I can still feel a thrill when an agitated Dr. Lecter calls Starling back to his cell. Rudeness is unspeakably ugly to him.

Distinctive "ews" are still resounding throughout the room. I wonder how the males feel.

Once again, my eyes drift away from the screen to observe Jonathan. I'm turning into him; I keep analyzing his reactions to the film. Especially when Buffalo Bill is introduced and fools Catherin Martin (the next special lady), knocks her out, and kidnaps her. The gears in Crane's brain are working, figuring out his mannerisms, drawing conclusions. I could watch him reason things out forever…it's fascinating.

_Damn, _I think. _I'm strange._ But I can't look away. The sounds of the movie fade into background noise.

_The Good Doctor. The Good Doctor._ Will Crane be a doctor someday? Yes.

There are plenty of freaky parts to this movie, but I keep watching Jonathan instead of the film. Why?

Another scene breaks my focus. Catherine Martin in the hole in Buffalo Bill's floor. Probably one of the most disturbing scenes. Oh, I need to watch the girls. I need to see them freak out.

It comes. "It rubs the lotion on its skin; it does this whenever it's told." I shiver, relishing the twistedness.

"Eeeeeeeeeee!" the girls shriek.

Again, after Catherine's pleading. "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again." She does, her form moving around on the dark screen. Nightmarish. A little while later, the F-bomb is dropped. I wince. I'd forgotten about half of this. But I still don't see how people find this movie that scary.

_Eh…maybe I do, _I muse, after Catherine spies a gory fingernail and nail marks in the wall of the pit she's in, and starts screaming bloody murder.

There must be only about thirty minutes left in the movie when Mr. Spade is forced to stop it for the day. A good part to stop at, too. Just before Clarice goes to speak with Lecter after he's been moved, for the last time. All the climaxes and excitement come after this. Plus, it's just one of my favorite moments of the film.

I sigh luxuriously as someone flicks the lights in the room back on. We'll get to Clarice's story of the lambs tomorrow.

It's left an impact. The students jabber together and shudder as one as we straighten up the desks. Jonathan is lost in thought again.

"Ames, is it all right if we keep it in the VCR for tomorrow?" Mr. Spade asks me.

I snatch the VHS case off my desk and hand it to him. "Sure. Go ahead," I tell our flexible teacher, smiling with the thrill of the movie.

When the bell rings today, I leave Jonathan alone for the third time, but for a different reason. I'm still disappointed he won't make it to the concert, but not mad anymore. I watch him. He's tapping a long finger against his chin as he walks down the crowded hall, and there's a puzzled, interested expression on his face. I hope he's thinking about the movie.

I let him alone _because_ he's thinking. I won't disturb him. He hates that.

We come back to class the next day eager for more. But first, Mr. Spade gives us all a short survey to fill out. About his class and his teaching. It suddenly hits me how much I'm actually going to miss his class, and so, I give him nothing but a positive review.

After everyone hands them in, we continue the movie where we left off.

Tuesday. May 19. One. Day. To. Go.

To this day, I'm glad we watched that in class. Though noticeable to only me, seeing _The Silence of the Lambs_ changed Jonathan in some small way. Hannibal Lecter showed him and set the example. That you can be a genius, and that you can enjoy art at the same time. You don't have to go only one way.

I watch more of the movie today, rather than the people this time. My heart breaks alongside Clarice Starling's when she relates the story of the lambs to Lecter.

"Thank you, Clarice. Thank you," he says, and I spot something I hadn't before. There. The barest glimmer of delicate tears in Lecter's eyes.

She's forced to leave him, but before she goes, he hands her back Buffalo Bill's case file. He won't need it anymore. As she grabs it, he strokes her finger briefly with one of his own. After all their conversations behind bars, it's their first touch. I want to jump up and down and squeal.

The boys (excluding Jonathan) and I cheer through Lecter's particularly gruesome escape from his new cell. Isn't the idea of chewing someone's face off ridiculous? But he makes it look…cool. So clever.

Jonathan grimaces at the gory scene the authorities discover. I grin like an idiot.

I swear no one dares to breathe when Clarice (almost accidentally) tracks down Buffalo Bill at his house…and then realizes (too late) that she's trapped in the house with the killer they've been searching for. Unintentionally.

A maze through the rooms beneath his house. Clarice finds Catherine in the pit. And then one of the rooms she enters goes black. Black-black. Pitch black. No glints, no lights, nothing. She's being tracked. Again, no one breathes.

A small cry emits from the throat of one of the girls up front as we are thrown into light again…but through the view of night vision goggles. Bill is tracking her, right behind her, and she doesn't know it.

We are kept in suspense for a while; at one point his hand reaches out to grab the back of Clarice's head before she spins around, and he withdraws it.

A gun replaces his hand in our view. The hammer clicks back…and Clarice hears it and whirls back around, firing blindly. And kills him. Though I knew how it would end, I still let out a long sigh of relief.

Clarice is promoted from her rookie position, and Lecter comes back to haunt her at the end of the film. She gets a phone call from him, in some tropical paradise somewhere, and hangs up after a short talk, leaving her calling, "Dr. Lecter? Dr. Lecter? Dr. Lecter?" over and over repeatedly.

The last scene of the film is Lecter strolling through the crowded streets of the place he's at, getting farther and farther away from us.

The shot continues until he vanishes, and the end credits roll.

Applause. The class actually gives the movie a round of applause, when it's over. Unintentionally, we circle up our desks to talk about it some before the last period of the day ends.

I mainly sit there and listen to the other energized conversations. Mr. Spade answers what questions he can. I also observe Jonathan, who's pondering something. Again.

"Oh, it was so messed up!" Destiny wails.

Unable to hold back this time, I pipe up. "I still don't see what's so messed up about it."

A smarter boy answers me sarcastically, instead of Destiny. "Well, let's see. A wannabe transsexual kidnaps overweight girls, kills them, and skins them to make himself a woman suit. No, that's not messed up at all." Murmurs in agreement.

I flush and speak up again, nearly throwing my hands into the air. "I still can't see what people find so scary about it!" I exclaim.

Dumb boy tries again. "Anthony Hopkins cuts off a man's face and wears it."

I just shrug.

Apparently, Jonathan has similar thoughts. After class, I stay near him. We walk to the lockers together, and then out to the parking lot, where I follow him to his car. His guard is lower than usual. "What possessed him to let us watch _that_ in class?" he asks me quizzically, opening his car door.

I clutch the movie to my chest. "A very deep love of film," I answer solemnly.

He slides into his clunker, and I look up to study the sky. "Hey, the sun's shining again."

I smile.

Crane sends me an amused look before slamming his door and driving away. My smile is brighter than the sun above.

He'd been in a good mood. Probably should've asked him one more time about the concert.

* * *

><p>The last day of my junior year is a surprisingly uneventful one. A predictable day. In our shortened class periods, all we do is play games or talk. But for me, the idea of the spring concert keeps creeping up, closer and closer.<p>

Then, it's the end of school. I swallow thickly, and even give Mr. Spade a bold hug before leaving American History forever. Best teacher I ever had…

Jonathan and I walk together again after school, leaving junior year behind us, but this time we don't speak. I'm too focused on the concert tonight to do much of anything.

We say our simple goodbyes and head off on our own paths. Nothing sappy; I know we'll be seeing each other over the summer. Notes in mailboxes and such, rescuing him from Grandma, being a support beam and a friend. Perhaps making that grove of trees a meeting place… Now there's a thought.

Mom isn't home when I get there. She has said something about working with a client late, and she would catch the program at seven, going straight to the school from her job. Blah-blah-blah.

So I take advantage of her absence…and raid her closet. I feel _guilty_ about it, too. Sneaking around in her bedroom.

After much searching, I find a little gem hidden at the back of her closet. Before I actually look at the dress itself, I check the size. A ten. This was obviously a gift from someone that she never bothered to return. Too big for her, and it just so happens to be my size.

I can't believe I'm going to wear a dress. It _is_ a spring concert after all.

It's a cheap dress, but it's cute. A sleeveless, navy-blue sailor dress with a pleated collar and fitted bodice. The skirt fans out just above my knees.

I observe myself wearing it. Not bad. Not bad. It does nothing for my broad shoulders, small chest, and thick upper arms, but my small torso is drawn to attention and my thighs are hidden, firm calves showing. It'll have to do.

Still wearing the thing, I zoom upstairs and hunt for shoes, coming up with a strappy pair of brown, heeled sandals. Eh, they'll match the small buttons up the front of the dress.

Back downstairs, I rob Mom's hairspray and a comb, not doing much more than attacking and fluffing my hair with them before throwing it back into a half-up do. I brush my ends, near mid-back, to poof them out a little. Unlike usual, my hair looks styled for once. Like I've made an effort.

…

Should I wear makeup? I'll try, but if it looks like shit, I'll take it off and never touch it again.

I retrieve Mom's makeup bag from the bathroom and settle down in front of the mirror in her bedroom. I'm skipping the face paint stuff; Mom and I have very different skin tones. I'm sickly pale; she's golden-toned. Healthy.

There are perks to being an artist of sorts. I take the soft black pencil in my hand and treat my eyes like a piece of paper. With a light hand, I keep the black lines faint and barely noticeable. My face is a canvas; it's like drawing.

A faint dusting of light brown shadow, two quick swipes of mascara, and I'm finished. No blush, no lipstick. Unneeded and unnecessary. My eyebrows are still too strong, my nose too masculine, my jaw too stubborn, my mouth full but too undefined.

_The beauty is in the eyes_, I decide grimly. Dark gray-blue. Like a sleet storm. Accented by the makeup. My eyes are on the small side, but they've got a …mysterious shape. An almond shape. Bam. There's my single good feature. The only one.

An improvement. I think I look ridiculous, really, but if it's what society dubs "attractive," then whatever.

I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 5:40. I need to go. I've made it a priority to be at the high school, with the band, an hour early. To set up, and run through a few things, perhaps. Looking at the program today, I am the very last one to go; I end the concert. Mr. Burgess did it on purpose. Not that it bothers me. We don't have a stage, so the concert will be held in the gym, while the audience sits in the bleachers, looking down on us.

Driving is difficult in heeled sandals, but I manage. It doesn't mean I like the sensation of my feet slipping over the pedals. I can't keep my speed even, either. In Black Jack, it's not easy in the first place. Control is harder because the truck's so big.

Nothing drastic happens.

When I get to the school, I quickly pop into the gym and see Don and the guys already setting up. I go over and visit shortly, just to see how things are.

"Great," Don says happily, also thrilled about tonight. My eyes follow the cords trailing all over the gym's covered floor. "You look pretty, by the way."

_Age difference…_

I smile at him weakly and brush it off, leaving the gymnasium to wait in the chorus room. Little by little, the participants arrive, and the room slowly fills.

Time passes in a blur for me, accompanying me with a pounding head and shaky knees. What ever made me think I could _do _this? I haven't performed in front of people for weeks.

I suddenly feel like crying. Cripes, I'm such an idiot!

_Buck up and do it. Too late to back out now, _I tell myself. The concert begins, and Mr. Burgess ushers us back into the gym.

Basically, the chorus stands the whole time. For two hours. We perform five songs, alternating on and off with the concert band. Taking turns. Being the tallest girl in chorus, I stand on the back row of the risers. I will not look at the crowd. I. Will. Not.

After three painful solos and two duets, I'm forced to. It's my time to go. I begin to shake violently as I make my way down the risers. The rustling of paper programs whispers through the gym's stillness. I look at the crowd in the bleachers as I step up to the microphone, which I leave in its stand. I'm not holding it. Hundreds of expectant eyes peer back at me. I spy Mom in the top row, against the wall. So many…

And just like that, I'm all right. Confident. A different person. A persona I fall back into easily.

I close my eyes and keep them that way as the guitars pick up the familiar opening chords. I count out the eight measures.

I lean forward, eyes still shut. _"The world was on fire; no one could save me but you. Strange what desire will make foolish people do."_ I smile sadly to myself. It sounds great, this revamped version. _"I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you. And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you."_

The chorus. The audience is silent, listening intently. _"No, I don't want to fall in love."_ Don, in his sweet voice, adds in the _"this love is only gonna break your heart"_ after my line. An echo. _"No, I don't want to fall in love (this love is only gonna break your heart). With you. With you."_ At this point I open my eyes.

And see beaming faces. Proud faces, the pattern broken by a few twisted with hateful jealousy. I turn red. _"What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you. What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way. What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you."_

At that moment, I breathe deeply and happen to look at the student section of the bleachers. And see _Jonathan_ in the front row, sitting off to the side by himself. His blue eyes flash as he watches me.

My smile breaks my face in half. And I sing for my friend.

"_And I don't want to fall in love (this love is only gonna break your heart). No, I don't want to fall in love (this love is only gonna break your heart)."_ My happiness now is overwhelming. I get tears in my eyes and lock gazes with Jonathan. "_With you."_

Nothing romantic. Just…something.

Calming breath. Softness. I drape both arms around the microphone stand. _"The world was on fire; no one could save me but you. Strange what desire will make foolish people do. I never dreamed that I'd _love_ somebody like you. I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you."_

Almost over. The last chorus, and I close my eyes again. _"No, I don't want to fall in love (this love is only gonna break your heart). No, I don't want to fall in love (this love is only gonna break your heart). With you."_

Don sings softly, _"This love is only gonna break your heart."_

"_No, I…"_ The ending is more relaxed than we had originally planned. I trail it off.

"_This love is only gonna break your heart."_

A few beats, and then the band cuts off. Leaving only me.

"_Nobody loves no one,"_ I croon, and it's finished. The concert's over.

I get a standing ovation, to my delight. Don walks over and hugs me. But my focus is on Jonathan, who puts his hands together for me, slowly, four times. Four claps. He rises to leave.

I hear my mother crying nearby. Proud? I need to run.

"And that's the end of our concert, everyone. Good job to all and thanks for coming," the principal speaks into the microphone I've abandoned.

I escape into the lunchroom, face blazing red, trembling awfully, and breathless. Crying. Again. Too many compliments for me to take; I feel suffocated. I've got a horde of people on my tail that I need to ditch. I can't believe Jonathan showed up, even after he'd said he "couldn't" make it. How did he?

Lord Almighty. I should not be as ecstatic as I am right now.

Wanting to be alone, I decide to go into the girls' bathroom. I'm not about to go hide in a stall or anything, but I need a break from people. Heck, even a few insults would be nice. It hadn't escaped my notice that a lot of the girls in my class ignored me. No congratulations.

Not for long. As I lean against the cooling, white wall, the bathroom door bursts open. Summer strides in with Destiny trailing her ass like a lost, adoring puppy. I straighten up. Here it comes. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.

Summer's eyes blaze as she stands in front of me bitchily with her hands on her trim hips. "You sing like shit, you know that?" she spits. "You did a piss-poor job, you freaking loser."

All I do is look at her ragingly jealous face and calmly keep still. Just a simple response. "Summer, go dig a hole and fall in it."

I leave the bathroom with the pleasure of hearing two shocked gasps from the girls behind me. I hold my head high.

That Summer is gone. This summer is here.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I was completely honest this time. We are DONE with _The Crucible._ And junior year is over. I will admit that I skipped over the movie and the play more than I would've liked to, but I had no time to write in extreme detail.**

**The conversation ****Ames**** had with the boy in her class about how messed the movie was or wasn't is really a conversation I had with a classmate when he saw I was reading the book.**

**So I learned what the Oscar nominations where the day they came out. And I was extremely excited by a lot of them. Especially Gary Oldman getting his first Oscar acting nomination in his lifetime for _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy._ Which I would kill to see. I'm so happy for him! Also worthy of mention is Rooney Mara getting a Best Actress nomination for her portrayal of Lisabeth Salander in _Girl With the Dragon Tattoo._ It wasn't looking very likely, because of how late in the year the movie came out. WHICH I STILL WANT TO SEE. Damn Yankton, SD's Carmike Cinemas for not getting it. I really want Mara to win it, but seeing that she's up against Glenn Close and Meryl Streep, I doubt she will. But I'll be rooting for her.**

**If you haven't bought or downloaded Nightwish's _Imaginaerum_ album yet, DO IT NOW! It's amazing… Pure art. Simply flawless.**

**Question of the Day: Do you have a favorite movie classic? What I mean is, one you can watch over and over again without getting tired of?**

**Leave a REVIEW. I'll get back to you. I swear.**


	17. Digging a Deeper Hole

**A/N: Hey, hey, everybody! Just a nice, short little chappy for you here. It smells like filler to me. And just a warning, Jonathan is not in this one. It's been a while since he _hasn't _made an appearance. He will be in the next one, but not very much after that. Don't hate me.**

**PLEASE READ! For your sanity…**

**Okay, so I went back to reread my first chapters. My whole story, basically. And found out that I….have made a huge mistake. Maybe I can straighten this out. My timeline is screwed over. The event with Falcone took place in 1987, not '86, and was on her 12th birthday instead of her 11th. For some reason, I'd changed it up and it messed up the timeline I had planned out. I will go back and edit it when I have time, but for now, I'm just telling you all. ****Ames**** was born ****November 14, 1975****. Turned 12 in 1987. It's now 1993, making her about 17 and a half years old. There. Whooo…got it all out.**

**As for my favorite classic movie, it's gotta be, HANDS DOWN, _Beetlejuice._ I never get tired of watching Michael Keaton. Best part: *Kicks over model tree* "Nice f*ckin' model!" *HONK HONK* BAHAHA.**

**Thanks to **Wafia Primo, Decepticon-silverstreak, Michelle Myers, Unquestionably Unhinged, CD, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, Comidia Del Arte, XxKeeperOfDeathxX, pourquoibella, Zetsubel, AylaAbbs, BrontoBree, MoonDemon36, SladeRavenFan, My Purple Skies, Persona Dilemma, linnie kinda spinnie, Arlena4815162342, LuminousFaith, Mary Downpour, Batmanfan, LittleMissAngel, tribute14, itspeanutbutterjellytimex3, SilhouetteGypsy, **and **Silential **for the reviews! AND TO EVERYONE WHO ADDED ME TO FAVES/ALERTS!**

**Disclaimer: Ugh! Do I really have to go through this AGAIN? Fine. I do not own Jonathan Crane, _Batman Begins, _or _The Dark Knight. _Happy? (Vultures…)**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen: Digging a Deeper Hole<strong>

_We will go down; we will drown, drown,_

_Deeper down._

_The river wild will be our last ride._

_We will go down; we will drown, drown,_

_Deeper down._

_The mills grind slow in a riverbed ghost town._

_**~Nightwish, Ghost River**_

* * *

><p>"Ames! Get out of bed. Now!"<p>

I groan and crack an eye open to see bright sunshine pouring in through my bedroom window. " 'S too early," I slur quietly to myself.

"Ames! I want you downstairs! This is going to stop!"

Mom's lovely shrieking voice. And she wants me downstairs. What's got to stop? This is _too_ early for me. Just like it has been for the past two weeks. Sleeping until eleven o'clock is hard work. But it _is_ summer vacation, I guess. I have every right to sleep in 'til about noon each day. Only Mom isn't happy with it, and has put up with it long enough.

Though it doesn't feel like it, we've been on vacation for a while now. It's June 4th. Thursday. Every day feels like a weekend, and the weather has stayed perfectly nice.

"AMES IRVETTE MANSON! GET YOUR BUTT DOWN HERE NOW!"

"Okay, okay," I grumble, and throw the covers off me. My body trembles and quivers as I bring both arms above my head and stretch my legs and torso out. Ah…

Wearing a pair of black shorts and oversized T-shirt, I roll out of bed. Mom clearly wants to talk to me…and I've got an inkling for what it's about.

Stiff from sleep, I make it out my bedroom door, yawning, and descend the stairs. To find my mother waiting beside the dining room table, the highest level of annoyance I've ever seen in her eyes. Hands on her hips, high-heeled foot tapping. She's in full-authority mode. Great.

I rub my rumpled hair. "What do you want?" I ask tiredly, looking at her with bleary eyes.

Her golden-red hair is pulled back into a sleek bun, and she's wearing her customary, crème-colored suit and heels. She's almost off to work. Like every day, but has decided to drag my lazy ass out of bed before leaving.

Mom shifts the multiple planners clamped under her arm and adjusts the elegant purse strap slung over the other. "We need to talk."

I grunt. "About what?" I can feel the morning breath scum coating my tongue. Lovely.

I predict her answer before she gives it. "You're getting a job."

Ha, knew it was coming. Knew it _would_ be coming. I'd been sitting around on my lazy, unmotivated butt for two weeks into the summer already. Doesn't mean I don't want to yell at her for it, though. "What?"

I let her rant, studying our hardwood floor, while her voice fades to only a scrape against my unwilling ears. "I'm not going to go through with this all summer. You've been sleeping until noon for the past two weeks, and for the rest of the day, you sit on your butt and do nothing to help me out. You don't do the dishes, fold laundry, or clean your room. I'm sick of having to fight you to make you work. You think I like coming home from my job every day to find _you_ relaxing on the couch? If you don't find some form of work ethic, you'll never make it out in the real world when you're older…"

Nag, nag, nag. She's forgetting the fact that I had a job once upon a time. Heck, she even _knows_ why I quit. But that won't stop her from getting all enraged about it. I won't even mention to her that I have a suggestion picked out already; I've just been putting it off for the longest time.

On the plus side, this is the most she's said to me in a while.

I bite my thumbnail and let her continue.

"…and I want it done _today._ Ames? Are you even listening to me?"

"Yup," I answer whilst staring off into space.

"Look at me! I'm completely serious, young lady!" Reluctantly, I do, to find her rummaging through her purse. I raise my eyebrows. "I need to leave _now,_ so I want you to find a job today and run to the grocery store to get bread, a pack of green tea, and bananas." She sharply slaps a ten-dollar-bill onto the dining room table. "That should cover it."

And with that, she turns her back to me and storms to the front door, heels clicking against the floor. Not even a good-bye. I really don't deserve one. Those words of hers had stung with the truth in every word. Mothers…

"Kiss my ass and go to heaven," I say disbelievingly to her retreating back.

The front door slams. She didn't hear me.

Well…what now?

Fine. I'll go hunt for a job today. I start by grabbing the ten off the table and keeping it safe in my fist. I suppose I'd better get started soon; it'll be noon within forty-five minutes.

Sighing, I move into the kitchen to prepare lunch instead of breakfast. I suppose I'll have to dress nicely today. In case of a surprise interview when I apply, that is. No makeup, but I need nice clothes…a pair of good jeans…and…

Crap. I need to raid Mom's closet again. I own T-shirts, leather jackets, and sweatshirts, but no dress shirts.

_You're applying at the library to shelve books. How professional do you need to be?_

_Shut up, _I tell my head bitterly as I drop a square of butter into the pan I'd placed on the stove. I'm frying myself an egg for lunch, and that is all. I can't cook to save my life. Just simple things, like toast or spaghetti or lasagna. With a recipe, of course. Mom's the gourmet chef, not me. Never me.

To top everything off, I'm not exactly feeling my best. Not up to par. I feel weaker than usual, and a bit woozy. My stomach churns, and I'm starting to feel the slight beginnings of a major headache chewing, nibbling, on the edge of my brain. Full onslaught to happen later.

"Today is definitely a five-star day," I sigh as I turn off the burners and scrape the egg off the pan and onto a little plate. I've made it a bit chewy, but I finish it quickly and place my fork and plate in the sink. Being lazy is taking its toll on me. No exercise, no job. I feel like an inferior human being.

I lumber into Mom's bedroom so I can loot her closet. Eventually, I come up with a burgundy sweater that I think is _meant_ to be oversized, but on me, it's not.

I suppose this'll work. I can't throw on my leather jacket and boots and walk into a surprise interview dressed like a hoochie mama.

A dark pair of jeans later and I'm ready to go, after I give my hair a quick brushing. Yawning some more, I decide to leave it down, for the fear that a ponytail would pull at my scalp too much and unleash the monstrous headache hiding within.

I'm out the door.

I start up Black Jack and back out of our driveway. Another beautiful day. Before I put my vehicle into drive, I brake and look into my rearview. The Cranes' house is in my sight, in the small reflection above me.

Nothing. For two weeks, I haven't seen Jonathan. Nothing for fourteen days. All holed up in that house… I loathe to admit it, but I miss him. Really miss him. It feels like a friend has been yanked from my life.

I sigh and put the truck forward.

I sure as hell can't drop by for a visit. Maybe I'll leave him a note. You know what? I'm an idiot. Why don't I just walk with him to get the mail? He said himself that he does it every day around five o'clock. Why haven't I been going up with him?

'_Cause you're a moron,_ my brains scolds me.

_That I am,_ I agree glumly, letting the house fade out of view as I drive on. I need to stop having inner convos with my head. I'm sure it's not healthy.

I enter the city and nearly slap myself for being in the upper, nicer part of Gotham around lunch hour. The streets are packed, and I move at a snail's pace, a steady five miles per hour. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel as traffic jams up and I'm stuck at yet another stoplight. It seems as if every time I get through one, the line grows longer, and I get stuck at either the same light or a different one.

And maybe I'm whining too much. I pull at the collar of my nice sweater, preparing to take a right up ahead. This thing is scratchy…

I jerk the wheel and cut off a few people to make my turn. Angry honks fill the air. Through my rolled-down window, I hear colorful swearing.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Do they really think it helps to cuss someone out and make noise?

I take my turn onto a calmer, more suburban street. Imbeciles.

This street has very nice trees.

And there, slightly off to the side, is the Gotham Community Library. It's certainly not the only one in the city, but it's the largest and most popular. I make note of the fact that the parking lot sure is a bit smaller than it should be. Library: huge. Parking lot: miniscule.

I pull in and drive around the lot five times before I spy a parking space. I'd been faked out a few You know, when you spy an open spot and go for it, but then realize that some joker has got two wheels over the line of his own space and makes it inaccessible?

Of course, the free spot I get is the one farthest away from the library. I slip into the space and manage to squeeze out my driver-side door with much difficulty.

I back up and gaze at my parking job mournfully. Never my strongest point. I'm fine, but the guy next to me, on the right? Yeah, he's going to need a can opener to get into his car. I hope Black Jack doesn't get vandalized.

It's almost too hot to be wearing a sweater.

Clipping my keys to the belt loop on my jeans, I make my way to the huge, red-brick building. It isn't very tall, but this thing is vast, very wide…and tall _enough_. I wasn't kidding when I said the place was huge.

I walk up to the front doors, smiling at the sight of a few youngsters perched on the benches outside the library. Waiting for parents, chatting, or reading. It adds to the day.

Unfortunately, my face grows warm and the wooziness returns. If but for a brief moment. I stop in my tracks, rattle my head, and shake it off. Continue forward. Job ahead.

"Geez," I exclaim upon entering the brightly-lit paradise. I blink my eyes a few times. Rapidly. It's quite a change to go from warm sunlight to blinding fluorescence.

I look to my right and to my left to see many desks for the multiple librarians on either side. Lined up, right next to each other. I bet there's matching sets down at the other end of the place. Odd setup. Well, if they're really _that_ busy…I won't complain.

Everything in between is rows and rows and rows of bookshelves. Collections of every genre and category available. The lines of shelves are occasionally broken by a reading area with _armchairs_ here and there.

This is one helluva library. It occurs to me that I've really never set foot in this place before. It's a safe haven. For all ages. There's a reason this is the good part of the city.

A hand taps my shoulder, and I realize I've frozen in the doorway. Blocking entrance.

"Pardon me," I apologize quickly, and move forward. A middle-aged woman with helmeted hair and a tightly drawn face marches past me, shaking her head, muttering something about teenagers. Hey, at least I'm actually _in _a library. Unlike most kids my age.

Okay, so I want a job here. Where should I go? I stare at the carpet, an antique swirling pattern of reds, blues, and greens. It would be very easy to get distracted looking at it. I suppose I should go up to one of the desks and ask… I focus my attention on picking at the cuticle of one of my nails.

I walk toward the center of the library and turn around with a sigh to take in the lineup of librarians I can talk to. Who should I talk to? More like, who would I want to talk to? Most are women, a few men. I guess that rules out the men.

How do I manage to make a simple thing so complicated?

…ugh. Nausea. _Dizzy…_

_Get over it._

I blow air up onto my forehead to cool off.

Hmm… Maybe I shouldn't rule out the men just yet. I'm at a distance, but one of the male librarians looks rather young. I squint. Shaggy blonde hair…

Wait. I know that hair!

I creep a bit closer and peer again. Like a creeper.

Eek! It's Don!

I gulp. He's a librarian? And a rocking, multi-talented musician? How is that even possible? It's so strange to see him in a tie… _Looks nice, though._

On the bright side, I guess I've found someone to ask. Um, do I really want to do this?

A fan running somewhere overhead blows strands of my hair around my face. I brush them aside. What a bother. Slowly, I stride up to his desk. Don's desk. Funny he works here. He _had_ seemed to strongly support this suggestion over all the others.

He doesn't see me coming at first. Simply sits there, scribbling something down. I stand there, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, unsure if I want to announce my presence or just run away.

I don't have to. An older librarian in the adjacent desk spots me waiting.

"Conroy! Customer!" she hisses shortly, whacking her pen against her desk.

Don jumps and glances up apologetically, recognizes me, and grins.

I smile back nervously. Someone kill me; I cannot deal with this right now.

"Ames!" he exclaims lightly, eyes twinkling. I blush unwillingly. "What brings you here?"

I nearly choke on my own oxygen intake. "Hi. Yeah, I took your suggestion for a job…" I have a brain fart and go completely blank. Thinking… Thinking… "So I want it. Obviously. Um, who do I—?"

"—talk to?" Don finishes for me. I nod sheepishly. "Hang on a sec," he assures me. I love the fact that he's kept both of his ear piercings in for this job. What must the old ladies think? Don picks up the phone on his desk, hits a button, and his voice echoes softly over the intercom. "Mr. Kipling to Desk Three, please. Mr. Kipling to Desk Three."

It doesn't make sense. A intercom in a library? What happened to the ideal of absolute silence? Seems I've got a lot to learn.

Don puts the phone back in its cradle. "You've probably got the job already," he tells me. I frown in confusion and cock my head to the side. "Well, for one thing, you're tall. And we've been looking for another shelver for so long now that it's ridiculous. We're kinda desperate, dude."

Heat creeps up my face and my head spins again. Wow, I really am not feeling well…

"Is it a dangerous job?" I croak out a few seconds later.

Don waggles his eyebrows up and down at me charmingly before tucking the pen in his hand behind his ear. "Depends on what you deem 'dangerous'," he teases.

A sense of foreboding behind that statement. Quickly shaken off and ignored.

_Damn it…_ I shoot Don a befuddled look.

"Don, stop flustering the young lady," an elderly, intelligent voice scolds from behind me. Don smiles as I whip around to find the owner of the voice.

A man, in his sixties, and even taller than I am, is standing there with his hands clasped behind his thin back. I give him a quick scan up and down and feel the urge to burst into laughter.

Don introduces us. "Ames, this is Archibald Kipling, the head of the library. Mr. Kipling, this is—"

"—Ames Manson," I interrupt, stepping forward to shake hands with the odd-looking man. Good impressions need to be made. He takes my hand in his long fingers. His aura… I feel sick, but this guy makes me want to feel happy. Cheerful.

The reason I'd wanted to collapse in giggles is his appearance. He's tall, thin, and his body is rather normal-looking. But his face and head are so comical. His head is a fuzzball and his hair is made up of white, fluffy-looking tufts sticking up at odd angles. If that's not enough, Mr. Kipling wears glasses. Very similar to Jonathan's pair. But these things are much heavier; they are _huge!_ And they seem to magnify his gray eyes to ten times their already-large size.

He looks like a bug wearing a shirt and tie. You just have to smile.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Manson," he greets me kindly and formally. I can't get over how he looks. Don waves us off with a hand, and we walk a few steps away from him to converse. Meeting the library's director is more than a little nerve-wracking. Probably be my future boss.

We stop strolling, and he looks down on me again. "So, Miss Manson. What did Don call me over for?"

Oh, to heck with it. I clear my throat and try to avoid looking at the carpet. "Er—I heard you had a position open. As someone who…shelves books?" It all comes out rather weakly.

"Ah, yes. There is a god!" My eyebrows go up in surprise as Mr. Kipling raises his eyes to the library's ceiling. He clasps his hands together and briskly strides forward. "Well, let me show you the ropes now that I'm not busy."

I freeze with my mouth hanging open. And scramble after him. "Wait a second," I squeak, catching up with Mr. Kipling's long strides. "Just like that? I'm hired?" The confusion makes my head spin. _Woozy…_

Mr. Kipling smiles at me over his shoulder. He looks like Einstein…only with glasses and without the mustache. "Of course. We've been looking for a helper for quite some time now. Miss Manson, my sensitivity to the female nature informs me that you are a gem. A keeper, so to speak. We're not going to let anyone who's actually interested in this spot go."

Oh god, how is it even _possible_ for me to get any redder? I'm just going to be shelving books!

Despite his kooky appearance, Mr. Kipling has a way about him that suggests he should be strolling about with a fancy cane. I don't know what to tell him other than, "Thank you."

"Not a problem, my dear," he says pleasantly. "Keep following me around here, and I'll explain a few things to you."

I have a job? And I need to thank my lucky stars and remind myself that this is probably going to be the first and last time I'll ever be hired on the spot.

The whole "showing of the ropes" thing takes approximately an hour. Basically, I learn what my job entails. Retrieving books from the return cart and shelving them. But that's not all. I also need to make rounds around the library, checking the condition of books and scanning spines to make sure everything's where it should be. Simple enough. Mr. Kipling informs me that Don will be helping me out occasionally. I had no idea he has two jobs here. During the tour, Mr. Kipling and I discuss hours and scheduling conflicts. It's arranged that I'll work five-hour days, four days a week during the summer, with weekends and Friday off.

When school arrives, we'll discuss that schedule then. Not bad for $4.25 an hour.

Mr. Kipling practically has to drag me away from the comics/graphic novels section. That AND the mythology books. "Time for that later," he chastises me.

"Eh, I get distracted easily," I admit as we make our way back up to the front desks. "It'll be a problem." Well, at least I can say it. It's amazing how comfortable and at home I am after spending such a short amount of time in this place.

Mr. Kipling scratches his fluffy head and goes up to Don's desk. "Perhaps we can solve that." He gestures with a hand. "As a new employee, we do sign you up for a library card. Free of charge. Our treat."

Can my mouth go any wider? But then it breaks into a cheek-splitting grin. Even my nausea seems to be subsiding. It's almost as if scoring this job is too good to be true.

It probably is.

"Do you have an ID and a proof of address with you?"

I shake my head, feeing dejected. "No. I wasn't really expecting this."

"It's all right. Fill out this form quickly, and we'll hold it for you until you come in next time. Bring those two items in with you."

I feel obligated to respond with, "Yes, sir." I take the pen and paper Mr. Kipling holds out to me. A basic form. Name, address, telephone number. I complete it and hand it in to Don, feeling the session about to end here.

"Don't forget. You start two weeks from now. Monday, the 22nd. Twelve to five."

I nod my head dutifully. "Got it." Mr. Kipling nods back and goes off on his own business. Wow… His head bobs as he walks.

"Congrats," Don whispers to me as I walk toward the exit. That smile…hair…damn you, mature twenty-five-year-olds.

The outdoors welcome me with warm sunshine and a light breeze. Ah, June. Seems like we finally shook off the last dregs of winter. Hmph. Took long enough.

I look to my truck, still squeezed into the small parking space. Both vehicles are still parked beside me. I groan. And then brighten up.

My fingers find the ten-dollar-bill in my jeans' pocket. Well, if I remember correctly, there _is_ a grocery store a few blocks down from here. A good, clean one. Not very popular. Maybe it's not so clean… Who cares?

Einstein moment of the day. I'm going to walk to the grocery store. Hopefully, when I get back, one of the people parked beside me will have gone. I don't want to back into anybody. Heh.

Off I go, down the sidewalk. _Good part of the city._ Birds (ew…!), trees, a single car whizzing by every five minutes. Light breeze. Quiet, except for car horns honking from a distance. Almost…too quiet.

I keep my eyes downcast to the sidewalk as I walk down to the store. It's cracked, pieces jut out, and the leaves of trees cast speckled shadows on the rough cement. It's too nice… Nothing is going to happen. Or disrupt it.

It appears that no matter where you go in Gotham, you always have to pass the openings of alleyways. Though they're better in this part of the city, cleaner than they are in the Narrows, alleys are still…unnerving. I have to force myself not to stare down them. If there's anything in there, I don't want to see it.

_A couple blocks to go…_ Ugh, I'm not feeling well again. _Walk faster._

Nose to the ground. Almost to the store.

On cue, I hear a swish of fabric, a dusty sound, and a silent patter of feet. A soundless scraping. I whirl around and see something black disappear into an alley out of the corner of my eye. I'm done walking. But I can't go back.

My heart jumps to my throat. Scared shitless, but I don't necessarily feel endangered. Weird.

Strange brushing noise again. A rustling. Behind me. Like wind. A breath.

I spin back around to face the direction I'd been heading. Quick enough to catch a fuller glimpse of whatever's stalking me or the city.

A figure in black. Something on its back. Quicker than lightning. I barely register that it's a human being.

_There's more than one… _Suddenly, it feels like the dry paper noise is surrounding me. It could've been the rustling of the leaves in the trees.

Nuh-uh. I take off running toward the grocery store. Maybe not in danger, but I've got the willies.

_Old haunts. How could I have forgotten about these…things?_ I think desperately as my feet pound the pavement. This scenario seems oddly familiar…only in another part of town. These guys…had I really thought they'd only be creeping around the Narrows?

Who are they?

I reach the door of the grocery store and latch onto the single long handle attached to the dark glass. And turn around.

Just what I'd thought: I hadn't been followed. My breathing slows.

_Blech…_the exercise is catching up with my stomach.

On the other side of the street, on the opposite sidewalk, a bystander has stopped in their tracks to stare at me. I ignore them. _Stupid girl, for forgetting…_

I groan. "I swear I'm going to Hell for my obliviousness."

The whirring noises of the laundromat next door follow me as I enter the grocery store.

I press a hand to my warm forehead as I look around the small, not-so-clean store. Well, let's get started. Just put everything behind you. I grab one of the red baskets resting beside the entrance and walk up and down the short aisles, nodding to the occasional passerby, and getting dizzier by the second, before realizing my problem.

I didn't make a list. I have no idea what I'm supposed to buy for my mother. Damn ninja-things made me forget. It was all in my head until then. Now I feel worse.

For nearly ten minutes, I stare down a box of Jiffy muffin mix, straining to remember the items.

Yikes, my brain is going to burst into flames.

It hits me like a charging elephant. Bread, a small pack of green tea, and bananas. Bingo. I'm such a corndog. Three little things.

I sling the basket over my arm and set off for the produce.

It only take me five more minutes, but I'm more nauseous than before and feeling quite fatigued. There are streaks of black, shoe scuff, on the white floor. This store only has four checkouts, so I choose the one (duh) with the least people.

I end up standing behind the mother of some kid in my class. She turns around and recognizes me. And smiles. I don't even know her last name, let alone her first; she just looks familiar. Short, dumpy, brown hair. Like most women. We all look alike.

For being the shortest line, this is taking a long time. And the disgruntled employees don't exactly look like rays of sunshine.

A flash of heat to my face. My stomach turns.

I take step forward as the line moves up.

_Dumb of you to put the green tea in your basket. Too heavy…_

My vision dims around the edges. My head spins, and my line of sight tilts jarringly. I lurch one way…and topple.

I faintly hear someone yell, "Ames!" before passing out. I come to a few moments later, lying flat on my back and surrounded by staring and curious faces.

Did I just faint?

And owww… I think I hit my head. At least I hadn't landed on my basket. I'm cold, shaking, but intact. Nausea gone. Maybe passing out was what I needed to do. In order to feel up to par again. Huh. I'm fine. Regardless of the soon-to-form bruises on my face and elbow.

The soft face of the mother of the kid from my class hovers above me. "Someone call an ambulance!" she barks to a gaping employee behind her.

Even though I'm still woozy, I try to scramble up and yell, "No! Don't call 911, damnit! I just fainted! You're all overreacting." I can't even sit up. The mother's got me pinned down.

"Dear, you've hit your head—" she tries to plead.

"Really, I'm fine!" I interrupt, pissed off. "Let me up!" No ambulance crew, please God! I continue to spout off in front of my worried-looking audience. Ha. This is the most attention I'll ever get from strangers. Whispers break out as I insist, "I just fainted. I don't want anybody coming to poke me and prod me and take blood samples! I don't even know why it happened, but I'm fine now!

"You don't have to run to the doctor every time you fart, for crying out loud," I grumble.

More whisperings. I'm an insistent, unstoppable force as I shove the nice mother off me and rise up on wobbly legs. I leave the basket on the floor and gather my three spilled items into my weak arms. But not before yanking the ten-dollar-bill out of my pocket. Straightening up, I march shakily through the checkout and toss the wadded-up bill at the stunned cashier.

"Keep the change," I throw grumpily over my shoulder.

Ninjas, fainting…what next? Godzilla?

By the time I get back to the library, one of the cars parked beside me had sure as hell better be gone.

* * *

><p>My truck idles at the head of the gravel road. I'm sitting beside the mailboxes, hunting through my truck for a pen and spare sheet of paper. Groceries are on the backseat…I won't look there.<p>

I wise up enough to look in the glove box. Yep, found some.

A note is definitely the best way to contact Jonathan. I'd ruled out following or walking with him to get the mail. If Grandmother Crane were to see us strolling up and down the road together… Nope. Not an option. I'm going to try to avoid causing any more abuse of the avian variety. I won't be the reason for it.

Humming an Ella Fitzgerald tune to myself, I scrawl something out on the ripped piece of paper and roll down my window to stick it in the Cranes' crummy mailbox.

It had been simple enough.

_Jonathan, please respond. As a friend.  
><em>_I hate to admit that I miss you. But I do.  
><em>_AM_

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><p><strong>AN: Yay for earliness. If any of you are wondering why the minimum wage is only $4.25…remember that we are in the year 1993. That was the minimum wage back then. I looked it up :P I also hope that jumping two weeks in the summer was all right with you guys.**

**Okay, so just a short story for you all, I have this kid in my class. Not mentioning any names, but this guy is a character. One of his favorite pastimes in English last year was to make fun of Christian Bale's Batman voice. Sure, it did make me mad as hell, but it also made me laugh like crazy. One day, we're watching _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, the one with Christian Bale in it and the weird 1800s sort of timeline. At one point, his character is shirtless or something, and this kid, out of nowhere, growls in THE voice, "You wanna see what's under this cape?" XD I died…**

**The extended Super Bowl spot for _The Avengers_ is up on youtube. I saw it during the game and SCREAMED with excitement. I must say, Loki looks delicious! ;) And people….I don't see why you can't like BOTH Marvel AND DC Comics….**

**Anyway, good lines? Anything make you chuckle? I'd love to know how you feel. Leave a review, and I'll get back to you. I may even take your suggestions.**

**Question of the Day: If you could have any superpower, what would it be?**


	18. Along the Long Road

**A/N: EXTREMELY LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE.**

**It's been a busy week. No lie. So I apologize for this late, poor update for you wonderful people. My excuse this time? Anatomy. We had the muscle chapter this past week, and it kicked my ass all over the floor. And wiped said floor with my exhausted body. Not to mention that we had a quiz and test on consecutive days. Now, onto the skeleton. Whoopee. This is only up today because my school was dismissed 2 hours earlier than usual. Impending snowstorm…I couldn't see the road driving home.**

**So yes, it's another short chapter. Has less of a filler feel though. It feels like this chapter isn't enough for you wonderful people. I don't deserve your following *bows* It still hasn't sunk in yet that a story from a little _nobody_ like me, from a town in the middle of nowhere with a population of 800 people, has gotten this much attention. I really don't deserve it, and I'm thankful for whatever I get from you guys!**

**I've also been having some plot issues. Thanks so much to the people who offered advice and pulled me out of it. LOVE YA! And there's been a few concerns over ****Ames****' fainting fit. Just a reassurance; nothing's wrong with her. It gets explained.**

**This chapter has pushed my Microsoft Word document over the 300 page mark. And I've started my third 70 sheet notebook. This is just an estimate, but I'm thinking this story will be approximately 50+ chapters. We've got a long way to go, people.**

**As for my favored superpowers, telekinesis. Without a doubt. I would ADORE the ability to move _anything_. Next up, hydrokinesis (to control water) and cellular regeneration. I would also love to read minds, be a shape-shifter, and be able to replicate any action I see. A copycat.**

**Thanks to **Wafia Primo, Thunderscourge, Masked Gargoyle, LittleMissAngel, MoonDemon36, XxKeeperOfDeathxX, Arlena4815162342, Fruityloops87, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, linnie kinda spinnie, LuminousFaith, Comidia Del Arte, pourquoibella, Silential, AylaAbbs, Knightrunner, My Purple Skies**, and **Silver Katsuyami **for the reviews! I LOVE ANYONE WHO HAS READ THIS STORY!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own ANYTHING! *sobs in a corner* Nor do I own "Big Empty" by the Stone ****Temple ****Pilots****.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen: Along the Long Road<strong>

_Along the Long Road,_

_And on down the Causeway,_

_Do they still meet there by the Cut?_

_**~Pink Floyd, High Hopes**_

* * *

><p>One week.<p>

One week goes by before I get any sort of response from that boy. Before there's any acknowledgement from him that I exist. He'd seen my note; that much I know. I know because I'd checked the Cranes' mailbox. My note was gone.

Going so long without responding…is he feeling any kind of guilt for leaving me in the dark? Anything at all? No. Not Jonathan. He's not the type to be pining away for a friend. I bet our short friendship was a school-only partnership.

One week is my limit before I would come a-knocking on his door. Regardless of the freaking circumstances.

It's the seventh day. Thursday again. And I'm stalking up our gravel road to check on it for the last time. It's six o'clock. The sinking sun casts a warm glow on my surroundings. Beautiful, this country part is.

_Stomp, stomp, stomp, splat! _That's me. Angry. Huffy. And I've just crushed a purple wildflower trying to sprout at the side of the road. Believe me, when I'm in a bad mood, there are no survivors. This one last day. I'm going to check the mailboxes. Both of ours. Isn't that illegal?

"I better have a note back today," I threaten to myself as I march up the road. "I'll shove a stick so far up his ass, he'll taste bark."

And soon, I'll be eating my own words. Because it happens.

I reach the mailboxes and fling ours open. What was I thinking, wanting to search _his_ mailbox? I wouldn't find anything in there I needed. My thoughts are dumb.

I peer into the darkness of the mailbox and do a double-take. I look once, twice, and blink rapidly.

A little white note is resting innocently in the center.

There's no way in hell…not after so many days…why would he wait so long? To infuriate me? I shut the lid, shaking my head. Time to go home. Nope. Not real. Not there. I've said it many times myself that I'm going crazy. I don't need to hear it from others.

"I _am_ going looneytunes," I mutter. There's no note. There can't be. Why am I in such denial? I sigh and think for a bit.

I yank open the lid of the mailbox and seize the note with the hunger of a man starving to death. So desperate for a word…but it's been three weeks since I've had any sort of contact with him. I feel starved. How can I be so attached to someone who is _just_ a friend? It confused me. I screw up my eyes to block out my whirling thoughts.

I unfold the small piece of cheap paper with trembling fingers.

_I loathe it, but we need to speak.  
><em>_Saturday. By the mailboxes. You know the time.  
><em>_JC_

I shut my eyes, count to ten, breathe deeply, and open them. And reread the note. And read it again. And read it again. Relief floods through my whole body. And the oddest sensation of joy.

_He's ok. He is_ ok!_ And he_ wants_ to see me._

It hits me right then and there that one of the emotions that had formed in his absence was _worry._ _Worry._ My mind had been filled with images of Jonathan as crow food. _Beaten, bloody…_ All the worst-case scenarios of what could've happened to him. _Dead, runaway…_ The things Geraldine could've been doing to him.

He's fine. My friend is fine.

…am I overreacting?

I snap myself out of it, but the joy is still there, and so I resist the urge to clutch Jonathan's note to my chest.

_C'mon, stupid. It's not a freaking love letter…_

My breathing slows, and my body is left with a silly tingling sensation. Still relieved…nothing can change that.

I analyze the note and smile. He hasn't changed a bit. Still the same old, begrudging Jonathan. Heh. He loathes it…but does he really? He keeps meeting me, after all. _He _arranges them. Loathes my ass…

Maybe I'm giving myself too much credit. I really insist on picking these things apart.

Yes, we do need to speak.

_Saturday. By the mailboxes. You know the time._

The first two sentences are obvious. As is the third. Yes, I know the time. Five o'clock. By the mailboxes on Saturday.

I'll meet him there. No walking up with him. No walking back with him. To account for the risk of being spotted by Geraldine's beady eyes. Meet. Talk. Nothing more. I'm assuming he'll explain why he's been avoiding me again…

Note still in hand, I whack myself on the forehead for the umpteenth time today. A cool breeze ghosts across the back of my neck.

Seriously, I'm acting like we're engaged in a forbidden romance.

…

Eh, a forbidden friendship, at least.

I read the note one last time before pocketing it and turning to head back down the road to my house. As I stroll, I think I should do something to hide the big bruise that had formed from my collapse in the grocery store. And I've got a nice one on the elbow, too. That can be hidden by a sleeve, but the face? All I've got is my hair.

Sometimes I wish I was more of a girl so I could be more skilled in the wonders of makeup.

I stop walking and frown to myself. Great, now I'm just having random thoughts. I've just realized that I always feel the need to hide my injuries from Jonathan. He's like a drill sergeant when it comes to questioning. I'd like to avoid that, I guess. He'd probably become convinced that I've got a home life similar to his or that someone's giving me a rough time elsewhere.

Does he actually care about my well-being? I thought I'd solved all this. The only way I'll ever find that out for sure is if I flat-out ask him directly.

My ass, I will. I've got no courage when it comes to him. Or birds. Crane can make me mad, happy, surprised, shocked, frustrated…and he unintentionally makes me cry.

I'm still standing in one spot. Back to the reference of my fainting fit in the grocery store, this one week later, I haven't had a problem since. I'd woken up feeling nauseous and a bit dehydrated that day. I had somewhat neglected taking care of myself.

Jonathan would hate that. I'm doing it much better now.

Now, as I stupidly stand here in the middle of the crunchy gravel road, the second random thought crosses my mind:

_Jonathan turned eighteen back in May._

This, if I'm correct…would make him the oldest kid in our class. Really, he doesn't look it. But there's an odd thought for you.

The oldest in our class, huh? Well, the groups of bastard and bitches never learned to respect their elders. Obviously. Then again, by my mother's example and by my teasing of Jonathan at times, I hadn't, either.

I shake my head and start walking again. _I deserve to be punished._ I still can't forgive myself for waiting until my junior year to defend and befriend Jonathan. Why so long? Why wasn't I smart or mature enough to realize the foolishness of my chosen path sooner? That Crane had it all right? And sometimes, it seems like I've gotten so much worse. The very thought of that one night makes me want to drive a railroad spike into my eyes. _You left him under that scarecrow, all alone…_

"Shut it!" I roar at my brain aloud, walking pace quickening to a jog. I groan.

I _so_ deserve to be punished.

In a funny way, I am.

There's a quick flutter of something small overhead. A rustling sound. A blur. And then a miniscule figure lands approximately ten feet away and begins picking harmlessly at the dirt.

It takes me a full minute to register what this thing is. Then, I freeze and have a heart attack. A soft whimper escapes my open mouth.

Feathers. A beak. _A bird._

In my path.

In fact, it's a little brown sparrow, no bigger than my three middle fingers together, hunting for food.

_Me._

I want to run screaming in the opposite direction. But I can't move.

_Someone save me._

Why is my mind so dumb? I mean, c'mon! It's a bird! Not even five inches tall! It's supposed to be harmless. How can I be so scared of them?

Noticing the presence of another being, the sparrow looks up at me with oddly cute, soulful eyes, head tilted slightly to the side. Questioning me. Seeming to say, "Look at me! See how small, simple, and unthreatening I am?"

In my mind's eye, the bird grows fangs, five feet in height, a tail, and dive-bombs me. I shudder, cold.

Well, what am I supposed to do? Wait around until it finds its food in the gravel and decides to move on? That's not cowardly at all…

Yep. Totally happening. Sounds ridiculous, though.

_Stupid, irrational fear…_

I'm doomed.

I lose track of how much times passes. The sparrow seems as unwilling to move as I. And it doesn't look like it plans on going anywhere soon. I can't go, either. If I take a step forward, it'll fly up and peck out my eyes, leaving me gasping in the dirt.

Okay, unpleasant thought. Shouldn't it have flown away by now?

I wish it was winter again. So these little songbirds wouldn't be out and about to terrorize me. I hug myself. _Monstrosities._

If I was brave, this would be the perfect opportunity to overcome said fear of birds and become a stronger person. But unfortunately, I'm not. The sparrow picks at the ground again before perking its little head up curiously to eyeball me. I must look like an idiot to it. Heck, I make the Cowardly Lion look like the Terminator.

I should take the initiative and charge ahead.

Nope. Not happening. I swallow thickly.

_You're having a staredown with a bird,_ the rational part of my brain reminds me.

_And standing, frozen, in the middle of the road,_ I reply mournfully. Further evidence of my stupidity.

How hard is it to stand my ground and scare the pesky thing off? Hard. Very hard. Torn by indecision, I clench my fists and zone in on the bird. Heh. Tunnel vision.

_Do it._

Not a chance in hell.

_Do it._

Never.

_Do it._

Over my dead body.

_Do it._

NO!

I do it.

Waving my arms above my head, I sprint at the tiny thing and let loose a shriek that would put a banshee to shame. I'm a mad woman, charging a dragon.

I think I give the little guy a heart attack. The sparrow lets out one innocent, heartbreaking, frightened cry before taking flight in a flurry of feathers. I stop running and watch it streak across the sky and settle on the sturdy branches of a safe, nearby tree.

_Wow, Ames… Really?_

Or maybe I'm still a coward. During the bird's flight, I'd half-expected it to crap on me in revenge. Could that _thing_ really have hurt me?

Yep. Still a coward.

At least I overcame _something._

I have no further confrontations with small, seemingly harmless birds the rest of the way back to my house. Content now, I allow myself to enjoy the nice evening again, singing to myself. Beautiful setting sun. I make sure to walk off to the side of the road now. Thank the Lord this road isn't busy.

"_Drivin' faster in my car. Falling farther from just what we are._" I kick a large pebble. It scoots ahead of me before I kick it again. "_Smoke a cigarette and lie some more. These conversations kill. Falling faster in my car…_"

I throw my head back and sing it out to the sky. "_Time to take her home; her dizzy head is conscience-laden. Time to take a ride; it leaves today. No conversation. Time to take her home; her dizzy head is conscience-laden. Time to wait too long, to wait too long, to wait too long._"

This feels way too good. I think I'll keep it up. It's been a long time since the spring concert. Besides, no one's watching. And my day has changed too much. Joy, annoyance, relief, fear, and easiness all packed together is a lot to handle.

I'm just a fat, moody teenager. But I laugh at myself for it.

"_Too much walkin'; shoes worn thin. Too much trippin' and my soul's worn thin. Time to catch a ride; it leaves today."_ I pause. "_Her name is what it means."_ "Friend", huh? Sure. "_Too much walkin'; shoes worn thin."_

My life really is more hectic than that of a normal teenager. Some part of me loves it. The crazy, nutsy part.

Louder now. I belt it out, "_Time to take her home; her dizzy head is conscience-laden."_ In one cheesy, corny moment, I realize how much that line describes me. Oh boy. "_Time to take a ride; it leaves today. No conversation. Time to take her home; her dizzy head is conscience-laden. Time to wait too long, to wait too long, to wait too long."_

Jonathan's note burns in my pocket, lighting a fire in me.

"_These conversations kill…"_ I repeat that over and over more quietly as I walk up my driveway. This whole walking ten or fifteen minutes to get the mail thing seems to be easier for me than it was before.

_Thank you, Jon._ But I can only call him "Jon" in my head. Never to his face; just to myself. One syllable is easier to say than three.

Or maybe I'm still that lazy. Hadn't he asked me to never call him that? I should be respecting that wish.

_Yeah. Since you also promised to stay out of his and Geraldine's business, but that's going well, isn't it?_

I need to shut that voice up.

Mom's not home yet, so I'm able to finish up the last chorus of the song as I burst in through the front door. I need to randomly pop into song more often. It may be mistaken for a sign of insanity, but damn. It feels good!

I've got the house to myself. For now. All I can really do is wait for Saturday and my meeting with Jonathan to come around. At least being home with Mom is bearable now.

Over the past week, her mood had lightened considerably. I had coolly told her about my new job, and that news alone must've sent her to her happy place.

But I hold a grudge. Still, even now, I don't trust her. I can't. I never will again. My hand comes up to smack my forehead.

A more depressing song worms its way into my head as I make my merry way to the living room, but I don't sing it aloud. There it circulates as I plop spread-eagled out onto the couch. The words latch onto my brain. I groan.

Depression.

Yes, I've been feeling something as of late. All year, actually. With each more unfortunate and terrible and curious event that comes into my life, some part of me grows more detached. Darker, angrier. I know it's happening. I can't change it. I feel it, even now. I'm aware of it. I shouldn't really worry; I'm not. It's not a split personality. Just a…cloak, of sorts. That covers me at times. You know, to give me strength. Courage. It's like a multiple personality, but not. I don't blank out, and I know what's going on around me.

I can't explain it. But it's growing.

Aargh! Maybe I have a mental disorder or something. But I don't _think_ so! Do crazy people know they're crazy?

Well, Jonathan's the expert. A soon-to-be psychologist…psychiatrist…whatever. Is this something I should mention to him on Saturday? It's not really causing me any worry, so maybe I shouldn't. He'd just be critical, mocking, saying it's something I can control. If it's anything at all.

"I'm such a negative, weak person," I comment to myself. The armrest of the couch bites into the back of my neck as I lie there, an arm and leg dangling lazily off it. How quickly my mood changes.

Lovely. Now I'm getting the feeling that my life is going nowhere. In addition to a developing mental disorder, I still don't know what I want to do as a career. I don't know what I'll study in college.

Warm, dimming sunshine pours in through the window above the couch. A golden glow creeps and recedes across the carpeted floor, in alternating movements. It's a good day…evening…for contemplating. While I'm at it, I'll continue.

The molten light rests on my face, clinging to my eyelashes. I peer through them with slanted lids. The turmoil in my mind goes from a Category 5 hurricane to a tropical storm. I'm calmer, a little less desperate. I handle each thought separately.

Well, I know _what _I want to study and _what_ I would love to have as a career. But those possibilities are slowly dwindling out of sight. People scoff at the idea, and where Mom used to support it, she now opposes it. Perhaps she's wised up.

Jonathan was right. I can't take it anywhere, no matter my passion for it or how much I love it. I've been dreaming. A little girl going for the gold with stars in her eyes.

The reality hurts. I close my eyes.

So now what? Career investigation?

My future is so totally screwed. It's very typical that the summer of my senior year is when I grow up and face reality. It's all coming crashing down. And now it's almost too late.

What a strange thought. A senior… I'm a senior now. And I've also got senior pictures and scholarships and college applications and financial aid to worry about. Why didn't I start all this sooner? Then I would know what the heck's going on.

At least I've got my college picked out. As much as I would like to get out of here and get away from this city, I'll be staying right here in Gotham to further my education. It's easier that way. I've been getting a few promotional letters from the University.

It's not that impressive. Jonathan's getting letters from Yale and Harvard and Princeton and God know from where else. He's a genius. Everybody wants him.

He's probably already written his own ticket to success. And I've got a feeling that Crane's been hiding the majority of his intelligence from me, as to not make me feel as inferior as I really am. I don't know the extent of his smartness. From what I've heard, he's done with the ACT. Without a doubt, it's above a 30.

After scoring a 25 my first time, I'm planning on it at least once more. I can do better.

Jonathan's successful future is set in stone. Mine is uncertain.

Jonathan. I'll ask Jonathan for help. Friends, right? It's what we do. We have all summer.

I touch the burning note in my pocket.

* * *

><p>Saturday comes slowly, but five o'clock draws nearer. I decide to be there early, and so, I snatch Mom's (she's in the living room in front of the TV and working on her planning) watch off her dresser and stick it into the pocket of the light jacket I'm wearing. This will help me keep track of time.<p>

Another nice day. Though the sunlight is brighter than it was yesterday. Because I'd left early, I arrive at the mailboxes with time to spare. And I pace back and forth along the gravel road, hands clasped behind my back. Worrying he won't show up. Checking the watch every two minutes. I kick pebbles, hum, and recite short, silly poems to fill the silence.

No birds threaten me, though. That's a plus.

Fifteen minutes later, Jonathan still hasn't showed. He's late. He is _late!_ It's unlike him. I get annoyed, rather than worried for once. _He_ arranged this thing!

Coming from the opposite side of the road, I walk back to the set of black mailboxes and lean against the Cranes', arms crossed. Huffy and impatient. I grumble to myself to fill the silence again.

"Where is he? I'll give him a piece of my mind to chew on!"

"Ames," a voice sighs exasperatedly from behind me. Heart thumping erratically, I spin around to find Jonathan standing there, arms folded. My first impulse is to throttle him. My second is to hug him. I do neither.

Best to not show how much I've missed him. I won't. I jab a finger at Crane and walk toward him. "You're late. We need to talk. Now."

He searches me with that penetrating blue gaze I've missed so much and eyeballs me up and down. I resist any impulse to smile. Has he missed me at all? Perhaps his guilt at leaving me in the dark finally came through. I do notice that his gaze lingers on the bruise on my face; I'd forgotten to cover it up and had gone ahead with pulling my hair into a ponytail. Oops.

Crane doesn't say anything about it. Not _that_, anyway. "I've been standing here for ten minutes. Might I remind you that I have limited time?"

He just wants to get this done and over with. I'm standing two feet in front of him now, blushing and unsure if I should slap him or shake his hand. Again, I do nothing except place my hands on my hips.

Then the horror sets in. "Wait…what? You've been here for ten minutes?" He nods. I flush once more. He's just heard all my poems and little self-commentaries. How humiliating. "Why didn't you say anything?" I demand, beat red.

There's that familiar smirk. "I enjoy observing you. You're a fascinating specimen. Very caught up in your own world."

He's not even treating me like a human. I glower at him. He's really needling me. And yes, I do tend to zone out in my dreamworld. That much is true.

Irritated, I place myself just outside his comfort zone. Almost in his feminine face, but not quite. I can see my own face reflected in his round glasses. It's not an attractive sight. I look down at him.

Yes, I'm happy to see that he's healed up nicely. No fresh marks, other than a nasty splotch on his collarbone. He's left his top button undone for the hot weather. Other than that, he's dressed the same. But I can swear that he's lost more weight. Despite all his teasing of me, there's a subdued look in his pretty eyes. Something's not right.

I peer down my nose and get to business, trying not to sound wistful. But I'm quiet. Very quiet. "Why haven't I seen you?"

Silence. He doesn't want to answer. For once, he avoids my eyes.

"Hey, look at me," I snap. "You arranged this. Not me. Why am I doing all the talking?" This is turning into another fight. As usual. An epic argument.

My annoyance level is rising steadily. I can blow at any moment.

That came out a lot harsher than intended. Hell hath no fury like a teenager scorned.

Jonathan's head jerks up, and he sneers, "Oh, yes. You do plenty of talking. To yourself, mostly. By the way, you_ shouldn't _do that. Lest people start to wonder…"

Psh, he knows already. Like everyone else. So maybe that's why it slips out. What other reason would he have to insult my sanity other than my father? Everyone is aware of it.

That _is_ why it slips out. The pressure inside my head balloons, and I lean forward to practically yell into Crane's smug face. "Just because my dad's in Arkham doesn't mean I have an existing condition or a psychological disorder! So stop questioning my mental stability!"

At least part of it's out. The part that he and everyone else knows. No one's aware of the circumstances.

But what surprises me is that Jonathan appears caught off-guard. For some reason, he takes a step back from me, the briefest expression of shock passing over his cold demeanor and something like sympathy in his eyes. It's all gone in an instant as he views me in a completely different light.

And I know.

His brow, covered with long hair, furrows almost gently. "Ames. I didn't know."

That's right. He doesn't pay attention to the rumors about how my dad's a crazy. It's surprising. Angry at my mouth for revealing this little piece of myself, I stare at the ground furiously and blink back tears. Unreasonable, stupid tears. I am a very weepy girl.

But I attempt to shrug it off. Now _I _can't look at _him_. "Yeah. Well. It's no big deal. Whatever," I lie. But I try to fix it. I lift my head to stare somewhere above Jonathan's. "Ok, you've got part of it. I'll tell you the full story sometime. Deal?"

"I agree. Now it's my turn to be honest with you." I finally look at him. He's softened up, guard down. If for but a moment. For now, the anger at him and at myself dissipates. We stand close again. Civil. "Please restate your question."

His cool, logical voice is like an icepack to my suddenly pounding head. A soft, soothing melody drifts through my brain, and I reach up quickly to tighten my ponytail. A few strands still hang free around my face.

We've both forgotten about his time limit. The sun is slowly sinking. Yellow sunlight turning to gold. As long as we remember not to walk each other back to the houses. My life has been too hectic as of late.

I duck my head before peering up at him softly. "Jonathan, I've missed you. Why haven't I seen you?" I'm yearning for some compassion, some understanding. I keep trying to search his face…we are close enough to smell each other.

Ha. Humans don't have smells. No natural delicious scents.

A minute more of contemplation, and then he answers me. "I thought it would be best to separate myself from you before I leave."

I look at him like he's on fire.

"Before you…leave?"

This dawning is awful. I _knew_ something was up.

He gives me an unforgiving look. "Grandmother and I are going on…vacation." Even for him, Crane nearly spits out the last word.

My jaw drops as I back away a few paces. "What?" I'm disbelieving.

Jonathan scoffs. "To Georgia. I'll be away for a full month. We leave tomorrow night."

Oh, life is _so_ unfair! And that thing I said about Geraldine and him going on vacation? How it would never happen? Yeah…'bout that…

I didn't know she was young enough to drive. Or travel.

"Why Georgia?"

Jonathan sighs. "Now, I will tell _you_ a story." A pause. "Georgia is the state I was born in." Disgust colors his smooth tone.

That's news. This is all very sudden…it makes me dizzy.

"In case you've been wondering, Mother, Grandmother, and I left the dirty suburb we lived in and moved to Gotham when I was six years of age. The move caused me to start school a year later than intended. The death of my mother added to that. She passed away shortly after we arrived here. Sickly woman. I don't remember much of her."

_So that means he…_

"I could have graduated high school this year," he continues, "if I had started on time. But to you, this explains why I am the oldest in our class."

It all makes more sense now. But I feel like crying. My whole summer has gone down the toilet. Screw the college questions, then.

I swallow. "This'll take a while to sink in but I've got a question. So why does your grandmother sound like she's from the Deep South, but you don't?" That was the most he's _ever_ shared with me.

His answer is short and sharp. "I dropped it. No one could take me seriously."

Typical Jonathan. And he's stuck with _her_ for a whole month. I get close to him and smile. "So why on earth would you want to _distance_ yourself from me, my _friend?"_ I put extra emphasis on the word. "Heck, I would've _loved_ to spend time with you before you left. Now I can't."

"I thought I'd make it less painful for you." Hmph. Well, thank you_ so_ much. I roll my eyes and resist the urge to sock him in the arm. I cannot _believe_ he's leaving me! All I can do is pray he comes back to me in one piece. All this worry, because Geraldine wants to go back and visit her home roots.

"You're very considerate." He doesn't miss the sarcasm.

"Fine." Begrudging now. "Tomorrow will be spent packing, but it's possible that I can slip away for a half hour or so. You deserve that much."

My smile splits my face in two. "So afternoon? The grove?"

"Yes." I'll wait there for hours until he shows. My _friend_ deserves that much.

It lessens the pain of our parting, this does. The idea that I'll get to see him at least once more before he goes. I'm losing him, though. Little by little. Yes, I'm still sad. But some of the tragedy is gone. It's finally starting to sink in to him that I'm not just some mere companion, but a _friend._ That I want him around. That _someone_ can actually _miss _him.

I really, really hate that my time with him has literally been cut in half. But his "vacation" does leave me with one upside.

I could start on his escape plan.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Don't hate me for his absence.**

**We've finally started looking into the spring concert at our school. The chosen production? _Annie._ I'm pumped, but because it's a musical, I have a feeling the participation levels won't be as high for auditions. As for me, I don't need the lead. I'm really eyeballing the part of Miss Hannigan, simply because it would be so much FUN to play! And I can't picture anyone else doing it. I've got a penchant for villains. Last year I played a forty-year-old cougar… Anyway, auditions are Monday. Wish me luck!**

**Guess what? We get to play the old 1960's Batman theme in band for our trip to ****Chicago**** in the summer! _Dunnah-dunnah-dunnah-dunnah-BATMAN! _It's best…so catchy... In addition to that one, we also do the Superman Opener and the theme from _The Incredibles._ The clarinet part is hell on that one.**

**"Bully" by Shinedown. LOOK. IT. UP.**

**I'm thinking that when the _Hunger Games_ comes to theaters, someone needs to make a music video on youtube for Katniss and Peeta, with "Wicked Game" as the song ;) Random thought. I'd love to watch that.**

**For you fans of superpowers, check out the _X-Men _movie series. Especially _X-men: First Class._ Young Magneto…mmhmm… Michael Fassbender plays the HELL out of him. And yes, I know it's from Marvel Studios. Who cares?**

**Question of the Day: What is the worst joke you've ever heard?**

**Good lines? Did I make you chuckle? I WANNA KNOW! Please leave a review…I respond to everybody AND take suggestions.**

**So long, loves.**


	19. Iron

**A/N: I actually don't have much to talk about this chapter. I literally wrote this chapter in four days. I have to admit that I took a week off. Literally. And then there was state basketball…but I guess that was worth it. WE TOOK THE CROWN! And no one was expecting us to get past the first game…**

**And I changed the chapter title so many times…back and forth, back and forth.**

**Also, for those of you who may have been wondering, I in fact did _not_ get the part of Miss Hannigan for _Annie._ I am Grace Farrell, which is GREAT! A fairly large part. But I'm surprised. The girl who got Miss Hannigan and me…well, you'd think it would've worked out the other way around. That SHE would've gotten the part of the nice, pretty, lovely lady (the love interest), and that _I_ would've gotten the role of the old, alcoholic hag. But ****6am**** practices, here I come!**

**I accidentally deleted one of my chapters, so I had to go back and fix a few things. If anything is screwed up, I AM SORRY! I think it should all be ok now...**

**I've heard so many bad jokes from you guys, but the one I've got takes the cake.  
>Here it is: <strong>Why did the dead baby cross the road? **_…_ **It was stapled to the chicken. **Really, people? REALLY?**

**"Set Fire to the Rain" by Adele somewhat helped with this chapter. I'm a hardcore rock music fan, but I'll admit that she's good. Sounds like a classic blues singer. If it's good music, and if it's talent, I'll listen to it. Linkin Park did a cover of "Rolling in the Deep" and it was FANTASTIC!**

**Thanks to **Wafia Primo, Thunderscourge, linnie kinda spinnie, Comidia Del Arte, Knightrunner, Silver Katsuyami, AylaAbbs, SladeRavenFan, Arlena4815162342, Masked Gargoyle, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, XxKeeperOfDeathxX, pourquoibella, Mary Downpour, tribute14, thexdarkestxnightsx, jazzy-me123, Silential, LuminousFaith, DigThatManiac**, and **NessieXnessie** for the reviews! I hold each and every one close to my heart. I have to say, I've come a long way. Also, thanks to those who added me to faves/alerts. YOU ALL ROCK!**

**Disclaimer: Grrr *pouts in a corner*. Fine. I do not own Jonathan Crane or Nolan's _Batman _series. I don't even own the Zodiac watch brand. Hold your horses, people.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen: Iron<strong>

_How long can you stand the pain?_

_How long will you hide your face?_

_How long will you be afraid?_

_Are you afraid?_

_How long will you play this game?_

_Will you fight or will you walk away?_

_How long will you let it burn?_

_Let it burn._

_Let it burn._

_**~Red, Let It Burn**_

* * *

><p><em>My dear father,<em>

_Jonathan is leaving._

I pause and tap my yellow pencil against my chin. It's the Sunday of Jonathan's departure, and I'm getting my mourning over with now so I don't burst into tears and flood the grove when we meet there later. Soon, actually. I'm not crying now, really. I just feel very depressed. I know he's going to come back. It's only a month. I mean, how bad can it be? Vacation usually means going to stay with relatives, right? How bad can _they_ be? As bad as Geraldine? Impossible. He'll have plenty of opportunities to get away from her. As for the actual trip down to Georgia, well, she can't exactly beat him while she's driving. Can she?

…

Are they even staying with relatives?

Uh oh. He didn't mention any.

Crap. They're probably staying in their old house, from the sound of things.

He's a goner.

_Stop it, Ames,_ I scold myself._ You're being stupid._ He's too smart to get hurt that badly. He'll come back.

I should give him a reason to come back.

Two tears run off the edge of my nose and land on the letter to my father. I sit up straight up at my desk, thinking hard. I guess I am crying after all. Dad will never get these, so the letters to him are good ways to get stuff off my chest.

So he'll never find out what I'm about to do. I'm going to give Jonathan reason to come back.

Dad had left me something that I didn't receive until a few days after his "arrest." He'd sent it back home to us, and that had been our last contact.

I reach down and pull out the bottom drawer of my desk. I lift a few papers aside with a heavy heart before snagging it and holding it up. The bright June sunshine coming through my open window illuminates the silver Zodiac watch dangling from my fingers. It's nothing extravagant—simply silver with a black face and silver hands and numbers—but still in good shape, while retaining that tarnished, antique look that I love.

It's the only thing he left me, but he'll never know.

I'm going to give my father's watch to Jonathan. If he accepts it, this will give him a reason to come back to me and return it.

It feels like a sappy, romantic token, but it's not. Oh god, it's not. Jonathan's a close friend. Nothing more. My pencil moves again.

_I hope you'll forgive me, but I'm giving him your watch. He'll return it, if he comes back. I had to, Dad; I feel like he's my only friend in the world. I'm sure you'd understand._

…?

Why doesn't the term "friend" seem to suit him anymore? He's more than that, but yet…not. I barely register as "friend" to _him_.

With a groan, I sit back in my chair and realize that I've moved from caring about Jonathan to being…fond of him.

Fond how?

_Stupid, bloody feelings!_

_No, no, no, no!_ Fond of him? Really? I've known him for two months! But we've been through more than most people. TWO MONTHS!_ All wrong…_

I'm filled with the dreadful urge to run over to the nearest wall and begin banging my head against it.

_What "feelings?"_

I've gone and done just what I told myself _not_ to do. I've gotten attached. Nice move, Ames. Real nice. Now I'll be doubly heartbroken when he leaves for college.

_What _is_ he to me? _A friend? A family member? Ugh!

I need to get out of this current mindset, lest I discover something I'd rather not.

Blinking my eyes a few times, I survey my letter to Dad.

_Love, Ames._

Wow, it's like a total of one paragraph. But whatever. I'll send it, and he'll never get it. Does it matter? I fold it horizontally three times before rooting around in another drawer for an envelope. I tuck the paper in, lick the envelope shut, and write Dad's name, the asylum's address, and the return address across the front.

I'll never get to see Dad anyway.

I glance at my old alarm clock and deduce that it's nearly noon. I'd better get going to the grove, unless I'm to miss my meeting with Jonathan. I snatch a jacket from my bedpost and throw it on, placing Dad's letter and his watch inside each pocket. I don't care if I'm early; I'm prepared to wait hours for Crane to show.

I'm just hoping he can get away, as he'd promised.

"Where do you think _you're_ going, young lady?" Almost to the front door, I freeze and grimace as I sense Mom come into the kitchen.

"Shit," I curse under my breath. I keep my back to her. So close to sneaking out, so close. Though I can't see her, I know she's wearing her cleaning clothes. In a small act of defiance, I rest my hand on the doorknob before me. A movement so tiny and light, she doesn't see it.

Changing my mind, I exhale and turn around, clutching my jacket. I try to keep my eyes from narrowing at her. She has no idea what's going on. Her ignorance is hurting us. Jonathan and I. Her faked ignorance for his predicament, and her innocent ignorance of my responsibility right now.

"I'm going out," I drawl.

"It's cleaning day. You'll be going nowhere. You will stay and help me out."

I glare at her and continue as if she'd never spoken. "It'll be a few hours."

She matches my stance. She's the mother here. She's in charge of her daughter. "Maybe you didn't hear me." Her voice becomes harder. "You're not going anywhere."

I explode, and I don't even pay attention to the fact that some of my statements are not relevant to the current situation. "Why are you suddenly trying to prevent me from having a social life, huh? You think that you can lie to me for years, but you won't let me go out with friends? C'mon! I'm your only daughter. Sorry I'm not your blonde, social butterfly-ish, perfect little princess, but let me do _something_ I want! I even got another job for Chrissake!"

It's enough. I'll risk hurting Mom to go meet Crane. If it gets me away from her and closer to him, I'll do it.

And I have.

Mom crumples in on herself, fire (that Falcone claimed to love) all gone. The look of deepest hurt colors her face as she backs down in defeat.

I force myself to be made of iron as I turn my back on her, grab my keys off the key ring, and head out the front door. Whatever. She deserves it all. Her happy place is gone. Happy June 14th, everyone.

By the time I'm backing out of our driveway and driving up the gravel road, my level of fury has quieted to a mellow level of irritation. I'm more annoyed than an armless man with a wedgie. I better lose this attitude quickly or my final meeting with Jonathan will be destroyed.

Time to turn up the radio.

I get to the grove at about quarter past twelve. And as I'd expected, Jonathan isn't there. It doesn't matter or faze me. Well, I'd said I'd be willing to wait hours for him, right?

_Another nice day,_ I think upon exiting Black Jack. More sunshine, a cool breeze. Much like the last time I was here, I end up clumsily stumbling down the steep, uneven ditch by the side of the road. But unlike last time, the grass is a fresh green color.

The grove has changed as well. I take note of this as I walk into the shaded area. A lot of these trees had been impossible to identify up until about now. Some of them, with the knotted trunks, remain relatively unchanged, except for a healthier look. Others (they're all different) have begun to sprout pretty, little white blossoms, and I identify them as early-or-late-blooming apple trees. Whatever is appropriate for this time of year.

I guess I'll be waiting.

With a loud sigh, I pick one particularly gnarled tree (also one of the largest) located near the center of the grove to sit under. I don't sit with my back up against it, however. More so that my side is facing it.

I draw up my knees and lay my arms across my kneecaps. Occasionally, I mutter or sing to myself, or pick at a blade of grass or two. I begin to hope.

One hour passes. Nothing. I begin to wish.

Two hours pass. Nothing. I begin to pray.

Then a half hour. I keep my forehead to my knees, close to slumbering off. But the rusty noise of a car pulling up and parking alerts me. Even so, I don't look up.

_He's here._

It seems to be an eternity before I hear the light padding of feet against the grass. Approaching me. I peer up through my squinted eyes to verify that it really is Jonathan before making an attempt to stand up and face him.

"Don't get up," he tells me shortly. I slowly lower myself back down. To my astonishment, he joins me, sitting so that our backs are facing each other. Not touching, though. Jonathan never seemed the type to sit on the ground and dirty his ill-fitting clothes, but I guess things tend to change. Despite his generally unkept and untidy appearance, I've always taken him to be a bit of a germaphobe.

In my brief glimpse of him, I couldn't help but notice that in a fresh white shirt and a pair of nicer khakis, Jonathan had tidied himself up a bit. Hair neat, he looks clean. I suppose he'd have to, going to Georgia and all. His shirt collar is open slightly again, and I haven't missed the fresh splotches that had accumulated overnight.

As an awkward discussion opener, I wince to myself (he can't see) and decide to ask about them. "New bruises. How'd that happen?" My voice feels dead. I want to look at him again.

Behind me, Jonathan shifts around and sighs. "No time for that. We have things to discuss. The only thing I will say is that she used a blunt object."

Does he actually want to be here? Yeesh.

A blunt object? Well, I guess I'm not surprised. A blunt object, meaning that old cane I see her hobbling around on at times. I should just be happy that she hasn't gone for Crane's head yet. Or that she's missed. So far.

I shake my own head, filled with relief that Jonathan is here, and, if a little worse for wear, well. I can't believe he showed. But hey; he arranged it. Again.

Almost subconsciously, I lean back as we sit in uncomfortable silence until my back is resting against something firm but slightly yielding. What do I say to Jonathan now? I think hard, fidgeting. He hasn't had a friend before, so he's not sure of what to say, either.

The surface my back rests against moves. I frown, lost in thought, spacing out. Stupid, unstable trees. I scoot my butt backward after a while and recline against it once more. And once more, it moves.

What gives?

Then Jonathan speaks to me in an stiff, choked-sounding voice. "I can feel you doing that, you know."

Out of it, I find the tree trunk again. "Huh? Feel wha…feel… Oh… Oh!" I shoot upright, face blazing red. I'd forgotten our positions. That hadn't been a tree trunk I'd been reclining against; it had been Jonathan's back! I cover my face with my hands. Touching Jonathan…he who so despises any form of human contact! It makes me want to dive behind our tree and hide in shame.

_Ames…you're an idiot._

I feel like I've violated someone.

Mortified, I keep my head ducked and whisper, "I am so sorry. Maybe I should just stand…make things easier…"

I feel a scrawny, hesitant pressure at my back and freeze.

…

…?

…!

"That no longer matters," he says quietly. Now _he's_ leaning against _me!_

…the hell? Has he forgiven me after all? This move…it's unlike him. Almost…too cutesy for his character.

To heck with it. At least he's trying something new. He's humoring _me._

Still uncomfortable, but overjoyed, I add my own weight to our pose. We are two friends, reclining against each other back to back in the shade.

_Never in a million years would I have—_

_Yes, we've been through this before._

I grin stupidly and am glad he can't see.

"Our time," Crane reminds me, "is running out."

"Yep," I say, unwilling to care.

"You said you'd tell me a story sometime," he suggests.

I close my eyes for a few seconds. "Okay." Am I really ready to tell him everything? "It's a long story. And not a pretty one."

He's in his therapist mode. "I'm listening."

I stall some more, in a strange sort of pain. "I never found the right time to tell it."

"Continue." He's doing a marvelous job of staying patient.

_Just get it over with._

I exhale and stare up at the trees above us, at the leafy branches. "Remember yesterday? How I slipped up and had a little reveal about my dad's confinement to Arkham?"

"Yes." I feel the movement of him nodding. Just a stirring of air, really.

"You'll need to hear family history."

"It's fine." There. There's that little note of irritation I've been wondering about. "Tell me."

I steady myself. Basics first. "My name is Ames Irvette Manson, and I was born on November 14 in 1975. But that's unimportant for now. You know who Carmine Falcone is, right?"

A snort. "Is there anyone who does not?"

I clear my throat. "Right." Funny. I only really know Falcone's version of this tale. Strange that this is the one I'm relating to him. "Anyway, my father's name was—is—Damian Reilly. In case you're confused, he's an illegal immigrant from Ireland, so he changed his last name to Manson. So, technically, I'm half-Irish." I continue, "Guess you never knew that, did you?" I haven't really thought about it myself.

"No, I did not. And I'll never look at you the same again."

Aw geez…

"And no one else knows, 'cept Falcone and the Mob." I feel like I'm taking us back to that night in the alley, except I'm in Falcone's place and Jonathan's in mine. "My mother's name is Jane Pierce. She and Falcone were romantically involved. Close to being engaged." Ew…

Jonathan makes a disgusted sound and shifts against my back. I ignore it. Yeah, and he thinks _he's_ disturbed.

"New to the country, Dad was desperate for a job and for money. He joined the Mob. Falcone liked his acting talent and used him for undercover things. Stealing, ripping off other mobsters, things like that."

"I'm assuming you get that from him." Gentle prodding.

I roll my eyes. "Oh, ha ha. Don't interrupt me. I don't know _how_ it happened exactly, but a week after Dad joined, Mom met him and fell in love with him. They carried out the affair right under Falcone's nose." I'm not afraid to let a small note of pride creep into my voice. "They got married and had me a year later. Falcone didn't find out until she left."

"One moment, please," Crane interrupts, seemingly interested. "This fails to explain your father's imprisonment."

I grab a fistful of grass from beside me and shred it. "Hey, I was getting to that part." He quiets. My voice is getting hoarse from all this talking. "Dad had a change of heart. He wanted a new life, a new, crime-free beginning. So in addition to stealing Falcone's woman, he tried to take the guy's money and run. He wanted to turn them all in." I pause and stare off into the distance a bit dramatically, chewing on a sore nail cuticle. "No one crosses the Mob."

I allow a moment of silence for all this to sink in.

"Falcone must've always been watching us, because I don't know of any other ways of him finding our house. The one I live in now," I say, waving my hand off in the general direction of the place. Jonathan is silent.

And I've arrived at that memory. I CANNOT believe I'm going to share this. Why, oh why, am I spilling my guts to this strange boy with blue lasers for eyes?

My voice lowers of its own accord. "It was my twelfth birthday. November 14, 1987. Night. And black. Black as it gets.

"It was snowing, I remember. Dad was about to put me in for bed. Cars pulled into our driveway, and Dad went out to investigate. I followed. It was cold."

From now on, I shorten it up, leaving things like the Irish-Gaelic lingo out, so it's not so emotional for me to tell. "Dad charged them…" and as Falcone had put it, "…a little trickery, a little chloroform, and they dumped him off anonymously at the cop station that night. Turned _him_ in, instead."

I give a bitter laugh and throw my pile of destroyed grass aside in a little heap. "All I know from there is that Dad used the insanity plea, and now he's in for life. Our justice system isn't exactly 'just.'" I make quotes in the air with my fingers. He can't see them; oh, right. "I haven't seen Dad, and I'm sure he doesn't get the letters I send him, either, because he never writes back."

My story is finally finished, and I _hate_ to admit it, but it feels good to know that someone else knows the whole tale. Just as he must've felt when I found him in the field that night. The truth had come out then, too.

Jonathan muses, "So instead of punishing your father by death, Falcone deemed that too quick and incarcerated him instead. It would be worse for a sane man to be in an insane place. More suffering. More punishment."

My eyebrows go up. "Bull's-eye," I comment with surprise.

How—?

I didn't know his thoughts could go to those dark places.

I add something though, as we both feel our time together coming to a close. "And Falcone's watching me, Jonathan. He's always watching, always there. He's told me so himself; he plans on making me suffer for Dad's sins." I realize how pathetic-yet-true this sounds. I crank my head over my shoulder in order to catch Jonathan's reaction. "But I'm not looking for sympathy," I insist sharply.

Jonathan also turns his head to acknowledge this, and our noses come dangerously close to brushing each other. I avoid an awkward situation by coughing and looking away. "Thank you," he says.

I snort in an unladylike fashion. "You're welcome."

I practically hear Jonathan's master eye-roll. "For the story."

"Yeah, well. No big deal. You would've found out sooner or later, and people have been through worse. I'm nothing special." Modesty. Gotta love it. Though I won't tell him about the times the Mob had cornered and harassed me. He doesn't need to hear that. I don't want to sound as if I'm complaining.

But, unfortunately for me, something, a distant memory, sparks at the back of Jonathan's smart and extremely spacious brain. "Ames, that day I saw…that white limousine in your driveway…that was—?"

Yeesh, this guy doesn't miss _anything_, does he? I grimace. It's the first time I've ever heard Jonathan somewhat shaken. I don't like it. "Yep. It was. And forget you ever said anything," I instruct grimly.

I feel his silent agreement. Story off my chest, the sad feelings of his departure fill the empty spaces that telling my story had left behind. We're running short…not enough time…

I want to panic. Is he acting like this is the last time he'll _ever_ see me? Like I am?

I resist the urge to butt the back of my head against his. "You know, to even this out, you should spill something about yourself. I mean, I won't see you for a month. I know next to nothing about you, Jonathan," I reason, playing with a twig I'd found nearby. I bend it in two. It doesn't break.

It's a greenstick fracture. Because it's young and fresh, it frays instead of snaps. Springy. I toss it away. "Please, even if it's just something small," I fairly beg.

He sighs. "I don't see why not. But Ames, our time is nearly up."

I shake my head. "I don't care. Tell me." I sound so disgustingly desperate…

Jonathan searches around for a trivial fact. Does he have an internal clock that he's using to keep track of time? 'Cuz I don't see a watch on him.

_The watch… Dad's watch…_

He breaks the silence. "I know how to play the piano."

I had _not_ been expecting that of all things… Those long fingers and graceful hands make more sense now. "I didn't know you were musical," I tell him, amused.

He coughs. "I'm not. Let me finish."

I wait and fiddle with items of nature again.

"Yes, I know how. But I never do. Not anymore. Grandmother forced me to learn, so I could play accompaniment for Mass."

Figures. I won't ask how he got out of that one.

I know how much it pains Jonathan to let me in like this, so I'm grateful. "I won't pry anymore. Thanks for that."

"I need to go," he says so suddenly. The support against my back disappears as he rises to his feet. I nearly topple over.

So soon? My heart is heavy, filled with dread as he gets closer to vanishing. That comforting smell is gone, too. The idea of people having natural scents is laughable, but Jonathan has one. Old books and laundry detergent. Nice. Simple.

Screw sadness; I'm devastated. But I show nothing as I also scramble to my feet. He's already walking away. My friend is going…

I walk faster. "Jonathan, wait up," I blurt out. He stops at the edge of the grove while I catch up and lay my big hand on his small shoulder. I'm still so much taller than him…will that ever change? "I've got to say something."

Reluctantly, he shrugs off my hand and turns around to face me, blue eyes bright with restrained curiosity. I take in every detail of him, from his baggy clothes to his bruises to his owlish glasses to his long hair.

I bite my lip. _Quit being so emotional…_ "I'm not good at this kind of thing, but I'd like to say that over the past couple months, I've become fond of you. I like you. You're my best—and only—friend." There. I said it first. It all comes out rather fast, the words blending and blurring together. Even so, I flush, feeling awkward, stupid, and hanging my head. I'm such a sap; it had sounded like a pile of lovesick goo. I hate it.

I'm pretty sure Crane takes about four steps back. I let one more sentence slip. "I'll miss you," I mumble, speaking to the ground.

No man knows how to deal with an overdramatic, overemotional woman, but Jonathan does fairly well, clasping his hands behind his back.

He finally faces it and drags himself in reality. He admits it.

"I have become…fond…of you as well."

My head snaps up and I smile like a silly girl. He just HATES to admit this to himself and to me. But he's finally _facing_ it. All so fast. He's realizing that _he can_ have a connection/relationship with someone other than his books.

He corrects himself. "Unhealthily attached."

"Thanks, Jonathan. Thanks a lot."

Crane makes an exasperated sound and rakes a hand through his long hair as he senses my annoyance level going up. "I'm sorry; I'm not sure how to react to your statement. I haven't been missed before."

It all comes out coolly, but he apologizes.

He. Apologizes.

And starts walking away again. He _really_ wants to get away from me.

I groan and stick a hand into one of the pockets of my jacket. Grasping smooth metal, I follow him. "Hey! One more thing; I've got a gift."

"No gifts." A firm, expected response.

"Humor me," I order. I draw the Zodiac watch out of my pocket as he impatiently waits. "Here." I hold it out to him. Jonathan narrows his electric eyes at it and doesn't move. "I feel insulted. This is Dad's watch. He sent it to Mom and me the day after his confinement. I want you to have it."

He scowls. "I won't—"

Fed up, I reach out and grab his shirt sleeve, bringing his hand to me. In a motion too quick for even me to follow, I've pressed the old watch into his cold palm and closed those fine fingers over it. "You will," I say sharply. "You owe me this. Take it. You'll have a reason to come back now. So you can return it to me."

Jonathan is truly dumbfounded, not knowing (for once) what to do or say. So when I release his hand, he keeps a hold on the watch, even casting his eyes down to look it over. Or maybe because we're getting so short on time, he's accepted it so he can get a move on. Otherwise, he would've never taken it. No time to put up a fight.

_This_ is my good-bye. For a month. No hugs, no handshakes. No actually spoken good-byes. No tears.

I raise my chin and look a conflicted Crane in the eye. "Keep fighting, Jonathan."

And this time, I'm the one who walks away. I'm leaving _him._

I don't look back. I simply leave him behind me, stride up the incline of the ditch, and slide into Black Jack's interior. Though sad, I feel oddly light. And drained.

All this admitting of feelings and corny inspirational speeches have sucked everything out of me. I feel dry. Zapped.

Strong as I claim to be, why am I shaking?

I'm pretty sure Jonathan waits 'til I'm out of sight before he leaves the grove, too. So he's not following me. Closely, anyway.

Filled with numbness, conflicting emotions, and turmoil, I almost forget to stop at my mailbox on the way home. Jerking to a stop, I pull the small letter out and toss it in.

I cut the engine once I pull into the driveway. When I get out, the only thing I can think is, _There's no way in hell I'm going in there._

Meaning the house. My appearance in the kitchen, on cleaning day, no less, would turn Mom into a raging bull. And she would charge.

So instead, I walk up to our front steps and sit on them. I've been doing a lot of sitting today. Or maybe I'm just waiting for someone.

Yes, I am. I'd left him, but I'm still watching out for him.

Ten minutes later, there's his station wagon coming down the road. Jonathan drives right by my house and pulls into his driveway. I crane my neck to keep him in my sight. How will he get back in without being noticed? Aren't the doors locked? For a brief second, I can swear his head turns in my general direction. But then, he's gone. I don't know how he manages to get back in, but he does. And he ends up being ok.

I think only an hour goes by, but I watch. Both Jonathan and Geraldine. I see their small figures moving around outside in the distance. They're loading Geraldine's shiny green car, with three bags of luggage each. They move back and forth between her car and the house. I guess it's more appropriate to say that _Jonathan's_ loading the car. Geraldine isn't doing crap. Oh, there's that cane of hers.

I gulp, observing closely. I begin to shake.

Even this far away, I can tell she's positively hideous. The loading goes rather smoothly, except for her occasional shrieks. Once or twice, I see her whirl that cane around her head and bring it down on Jonathan. I bite my nails and watch, screaming inside because I can't do _anything._

She misses again and again. Jonathan is surprisingly agile, avoiding the blows in the most discreet ways possible. Bending over to pick up a bag at just the right time. Conveniently twisting sideways to load a suitcase into the car.

Good for him; I'm impressed by his calmness as she continues to curse and howl at him in random moments of silence. I jump each time.

"QUIT LOOKING AT THAT BITCH'S HOUSE!"

There it is. I wince and press myself (still shaking) further into our front door. I'd better be out of sight.

"YOU CLUMSY SLOTH! HOW DARE YOU DROP THAT! YOU WEAK, SNIVELING BRAT! SPAWN OF SATAN!"

There is no resounding thump. She's missed again.

But I'm not watching anymore.

Eventually, it stops. The distant click of a lock and the slamming of car doors. A small engine revs. I perk up; they're leaving. I spring to my feet and run down the steps and into the middle of our yard. The sun's at its peak at four in the afternoon, so I'm forced to shield my eyes against it.

The car goes right on past our house. In a suspended moment, I see Jonathan's face in the passenger's side window. It lasts an eternity. Yay for me. I whip my head to follow the vehicle as it gets smaller in the distance and then turns out of sight.

He's gone.

I slowly turn and walk back to my house. "I think I'll go inside now," I say quietly to no one. I don't fear Mom now. I don't even care.

_Please, let Jonathan stay safe._ I really hope the watch works.

I'm all a-flutter with worry when I enter the kitchen. As I'd predicted, Mom's waiting for me, toe tapping and arms crossed, with the telephone in one hand.

Her face is a thundercloud. My bones wither and I feel weak. Why do I always feel the need to be a rebel? All I do is shorten my life.

"Took you long enough," she snaps at me. And holds up the phone. "Call for you."

I blink stupidly. Who the heck would be calling me? I've never gotten a phone call in my life! I've got no other friends. I'm actually curious.

Red-faced, Mom hands me the phone (I love being tall, even if it makes me feel awkward around others) and stomps into another room. I barely even know how to hold the thing, because I never use it.

I hesitantly put it up to my ear. "Hello?"

"Ames!" I vaguely recognize the voice. "It's Naomi. How's your summer going?"

I'm pleasantly surprised. "Good, I guess." Awful, so far. "You?" Wow, this is strange…

"Same for me. Hey, I got a question for you. I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me and a couple girls next Thursday."

I don't even think right as I answer, "Um, sure." And I think, finally. "Wait…who are the girls?" I must be really starved for company. Already. "Destiny and Summer?"

Naomi laughs. "Gosh, no. You, me, Kelly, and Annie. Around six that evening."

"I guess it's fine." My hand sweats against the phone. And then I start to think violently. I begin my job the 22nd. I'll be working that Thursday until five. "Wait, no. I'm working until five that night. Would you mind picking me up at the Gotham Community Library? Er—I'm not sure how to do this," I admit.

"Sure thing," Naomi says brightly on the other line. "See you then, Ames." A click, and she's hung up. I stare at the phone in disbelief before setting it on the counter. Guess I should've asked what we'd be doing. I've got a week to myself.

That was short.

But I'm nervous about this. How do I be "friends" with girls? They're so different from Jonathan. But I just _knew _it! I _knew_ Naomi was nice! No, I am _not_ being joyful.

As one friend moves out of my life for the time being, another one is moving in. But she can't replace him. Nonetheless, I'll give her a chance.

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><p><strong>AN: I really, really hope this wasn't too touchy for you guys. Because I REALLY don't want that.**

**I also hope that Crane's absence won't kill you too much. I've gotten mild comments about it. I'll try to keep it short and I'll try to make ****Ames****' life as exciting as possible.**

**Is all her inner contemplation resting okay with everyone?**

**Finally, for _Avengers_ fans, there is a new trailer for the movie up on youtube. Came out Feb. 29. And I don't understand why everyone is whining about Mark Ruffalo replacing Edward Norton as Bruce Banner. Things happen, and we need to move on. Besides, Mark Ruffalo is a GREAT ACTOR! I like him a lot, and I think he'll be good. I'm open to opinions, and I respect them as well. Everyone is entitled to their own.**

**Question of the Day: Pirates or ninjas? Who rules?**

**Did I make you chuckle? Anything inspiring or good? I would love it if you let me know! Even if I miss a few, I DO try my best to get back to everybody.**

**'Til next time!**


	20. Trust in Me and Fall As Well

**A/N: Hello! I know this is a day late, but I've been very busy. Play practice, school, college stuff….you all know the drill. Going to bed at 1 in the morning and waking up at 5 for play practice does not bode well with me. I am sleep-deprived. Not mention that _The Hunger Games_ comes out tonight.**

**There is a flash forward/dream ahead for you! I was really debating whether or not to include it, but eventually, my own curiosity to what I would write won out. This may be the last one. Possibly one or two more. It depends. The Joker is ahead, but just a warning. I did the first part of the scene from memory, without the help of the film. It won't be perfect, but I can go back and fix it. You won't know what I'm talking about now, but there will be NO JOKER ROMANCE IN THIS STORY! Just daring. ;) Older Jonathan interacts with him a bit more, but not much.**

**I'm planning to without Jonathan for maybe one more chapter. Summer is almost over, I'm afraid. I'm just so eager to move ahead!**

**And pirates. Pirates all the way.**

**Thanks to **Wafia Primo, Fruityloops87, Knightrunner, Comidia Del Arte, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, SladeRavenFan, linnie kinda spinnie, kaflute14, LittleMissAngel, Decepticon-silverstreak, pourquoibella, Hope, thexdarkestxnightsx, Masked Gargoyle, tribute14, itspeanutbutterjellytimex3, nessieXnessie, Thunderscourge, Arlena4815162342, Zetsubel, Silential, **and **OfColorsAndPromises **for the reviews!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. *jumps off a cliff* YAAAAAH! …..maybe I'll own stuff in paradise -_-**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty: Trust in Me and Fall as Well<strong>

_Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked._

_Money don't grow on trees._

_I've got bills to pay, I've got mouths to feed._

_There ain't nothing in this world for free._

_I know I can't slow down, I can't hold back,_

_Though you know I wish I could._

_Oh no, there ain't no rest for the wicked,_

_Until we close our eyes for good._

_**~Cage the Elephant, Ain't No Rest for the Wicked**_

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><p><em>It all happens very quickly. Almost in slow motion.<em>

_The door of the bank swinging open, the men in clown masks, one raising an automatic above his head as he fires up into the ceiling._

_She kicks herself for it, but she reacts the same way everyone else in the bank does. By starting violently and then collapsing to the floor. Minus the screaming. She doesn't cry out at the startling, rapid shots. Arms cradling her head, she huddles against a desk nearby, legs tucked under her long body and sitting upright. Invisible. Watching the chaos unfold around them all._

Of course, it has to be a bank robbery,_ the dark-haired woman thinks grimly._ And I came here to do some inquiring around. Today of all days. Makes sense; it's a Mob bank after all.

_Most of the sounds blur together: people screaming, random bursts of gunfire, and the goons yelling orders, pulling clerks and tellers over their desks and onto the floor._ If you're already on the floor, it appears you're somewhat safe. Stay down, stay still, stay quiet. All those years of hunting down the Mob are doing nothing for me now. I never went for common criminals like these guys…not worth my time. Batman took care of 'em.

_Something tells her that this isn't a common bank robbery._

_Still staying quiet, she thinks furiously, massaging her temples. _Okay, something's definitely off…but what?_ She pulls her gray suit jacket around her and tugs her matching skirt down to cover her knees. It hides the fact that she's studying the clowns very closely. _Men in clown masks, _she corrects herself wordlessly. _Just men. Nothing more.

_From where she's sitting, she counts two or three goons. There might be more. Out of sight. _But _this _number…too few for a money needs to be loaded, the safe needs to be cracked. And don't forget the security.

_One of the criminals is apparently in charge. He shouts things like "hands up, heads down!" and waves his automatic around. _He_ had fired the shots before, to announce their presence. The few others mimic him, but whether or not _this_ one is actually in charge is still up for question. _It could all be posturing,_ she muses. Despite her restraint, the woman lets loose a small chuckle._

_Said clown turns a warning eye in her direction. She looks at his feet, actually nervous. Hard to see through the blank mask of her hard face._

_Goosebumps rise on her arms as she realizes she's being watched. _No fear…he said to never show fear…_ One of the men is staring at her from behind his mask, gun in hand and head carefully tilted to the side. The floor presses up against her legs as the woman cringes and stares back somewhat defiantly, at her own risk._

_This one…this one has unnerved her from the very start. He's followed orders and done his part, like the rest of them. And yet…he's been silent. No cursing. No ordering, no threatening. Not a word spoken. And the whole time, he's remained poised and oddly calm. As if he lives and breathes chaos…as if it's a part of his everyday life. He's too quiet._

Silently dangerous…mysterious… I don't like this one. _She draws back even more firmly, looking on. _Don't look at me.

_The fact that he's the only one in the place wearing a cheap purple suit makes him stand out to her even more. It's almost as if…_he _should be the one giving out the commands. And not following orders instead._

_Their staredown continues for nearly thirty more seconds. Neither of them moves. _No fear, no fear. He'd be proud, in his own twisted way.

_He's looking at her as if he…recognizes her somehow. _But how would he? _she reasons. _Never seen him before. That I know of._ A few more seconds. And the man with the somehow distinguishable mask gives an almost flippant shrug and walks over to one of his cronies._

No, _she decides numbly. _No, I do not like him at all._ An awful sense of foreboding. So she's unsure why, when the clowns hand out grenades to the innocent bystanders on the floor and tell them to hold on, she doesn't receive one._

Eight months of peace. Only. Eight. Months.

_A couple minutes pass while the clowns parade around._

Eight months without a sign…of him_. He's active, she's sure, but lies low. She hasn't seen him for nearly a year. Not since that night._

After all he's done to you, you still want him back?

Yes. God, I miss him._ Her fingers find the ring on her left hand. Despite all her hate, she's never taken it off. There's a sort of sick dedication to all this. In her situation, the ridged feel of the ring is soothing. _Please, don't let them take it.

_A wild, desperate thought strikes her, and her head shoots up. _Jon's in the underbelly of Gotham now; I'm sure of it. Could these be…friends of his? Does he know them? Work with them? _She kills the idea immediately after it comes to her head. _No. Not his type._ She deflates._

_A blast shatters the silence, along with a sprinkling of glass, and a clown drops. This time, she jumps like a normal human. _What the—?

Oh.

_The bank manager storms at them, firing shots from a shotgun he holds with both hands. He's clearly mad, clearly enjoying it. The two unharmed goons duck behind a desk for cover, definitely caught off-guard._

"_Don't be a hero," she whispers quietly as the sleek manager pauses in his brave act._

"_Do you have any idea who you're stealing from?" he yells. "You and your friends are dead!"_

_Most of the screaming people have quieted to a simple whimpering. She can't see those two. _You'll only get yourself killed, sir.

"_He's out, right?" she hears the leader ask the other clown gruffly. A pause. Probably a nod of confirmation in that pause, because the main crook stands up, only to drop back down again as another shotgun blast rattles the atmosphere._

_The silent goon makes up for his so-called "error." He stands now that the manager is officially out of ammo and, in a spattering of gunfire, pumps him full of bullets._

Told you so, _she thinks, shaking her head. It doesn't bother her that much._

_The clown cocks his head to the side and watches the manager fall._

"_Where did you learn to count?" the head honcho snarls at the other clown as he rises from the floor._

_She must be insane, but she bites back a smile._

_When the disgruntled criminal turns and stalks quickly away, she assumes he's running to the safe, draws the conclusion that there are definitely more than three crooks, and wonders if they've made nicknames for each other._

_The silent clown glances her way again. She swallows. _I shouldn't ask._ To her relief, he proceeds with strolling around and keeping an eye on things. That automatic in his gloved hand, always ready to break the silence and _to_ silence._

_Five or ten minutes later, labored grunting can be heard from the direction of the safe. _Someone's lugging bags of bucks,_ she thinks, powerless to stop anything as she watches the other man walk off to help._

_Another thing that unnerves her about him. Of all the crooks with clown masks she had seen so far, his is the only one with a frown on its face._

_This is oddly disturbing. _What idiots think they can steal from the Mob?

_The two clowns appear a few seconds later, hauling bags and bags of cash from the safe. Everyone watching, they begin to line them up in the general area of the front doors._

_Then it hits her. Just these two came out…no one else for helping…but they can't have been the only ones on this job. _They've been picking each other off. One by one,_ she realizes. She uses her raised hands to cover the disbelieving look on her sharply angled face. _The fewer involved, the bigger the share.

_It's genius._

"_That's a lot of money," the boss clown speculates as the frowning one stacks the bags. "If this Joker guy was so smart, he'd have had us bring a bigger car." The silent man turns his back on the other, more talkative "partner."_

_Her ears perk up at the mention of that name. _The Joker._ It has been thrown around these past months. _A petty criminal, a minor threat, blah blah blah_. Apparently, he's in charge of this operation. _Minor threat, my ass._ She scowls._

_The sound of a gun being cocked pulls her back into reality as the sad-faced crook slowly turns back around. She sees the leader pointing his gun at him. _Someone's thinking ahead, _she muses. _And now, I get to see it happen.

"_I'm betting the Joker told you to kill me soon as we loaded the cash." She notices that the arm holding the handgun is slightly trembling._

_The silent man checks the watch on his wrist, sighs, and finally speaks. "No, no, no, no, I kill the bus driver." Extra grenade in hand, he sidesteps to his right. He then places it on his belt._

Bus driver?_ She frowns in confusion, trying to erase the goosebumps the man's voice has caused. Grubby, lilting, oddly deranged. Lighter-toned. She doesn't know what it is, but something about it scares her. And she hates being scared._

_The boss clown, in turn, also steps to his right, in order to keep the gun trained on his partner. He voices her confusion. "Bus driver?"_

_The previously silent goon moves right again. Almost as if he's positioning something or moving out of the way…or both._

_The boss snaps, "What bus driver—?"_

_And as if the day couldn't get any stranger, a school bus comes crashing in, rear end first, through the doors of the Mob bank. And sends the head clown flying._

_She jumps and simultaneously thinks, _Yep. He's done for.

_The wise guy didn't even flinch at that moving hulk of yellow metal. Simply watches his partner go down while backing up a few steps._

_The rear doors of the school bus fly open and _another_, pudgier henchman jumps out, proudly proclaiming, "School's out. Time to go." He pauses to look at his downed buddy on the floor. "That guy's not getting up, is he?" Laughter clearly evident in his tone._

_The man in the purple suit remains silent again. He bends over and begins tossing bags of cash to his newfound helper._

"_That's a lot of money," the new clown says greedily as he throws the sacks in the back of the bus. The last bag is loaded before he stands there awkwardly, looking around, and asks dumbly, "What happened to the rest of the guys?"_

_Almost nonchalantly, the frowning goon carelessly points his weapon backwards and guns down the stupid one._

He's the only one left. That has to mean…_She won't complete the thought. He ignores her now, instead going back for a bag he has missed. Now that he's the only one left, there's a carefree, lazy swing in his step. She sees a weak movement out of the corner of her eye._

_After retrieving the last bag, the last clown tosses it into the back of the bus and prepares to swing himself into it when a pained, weak voice breaks the silence._

"_You think you're smart, huh?"_

_This time, she's not afraid to gasp aloud. _How the hell is he still alive? _she wonders, hopeful._

_No longer the last man standing, the criminal turns back around._

_She spots the manager turned onto his side, limp and head barely raised above the floor, shotgun just out of reach of his splayed hands. "The guy that hired youse…" he slurs the last few words together, coughing and chuckling at the same time, "…he'll just do the same to you." Barely kicking._

_All she can do is watch the man's bravery and watch the last clown's hand go to his belt and unlatch something as he strolls forward. Walking toward the manager._

He already knows how to take care of this little problem.

_The bank manager's honest voice becomes tainted with longing and saturated with rage. "Oh, criminals in this town used to believe in things." He is unfaltering, unaffected by the fearsome sight of the monster approaching him. "Honor…respect."_

_Clown gets closer. He notices._

"_Look at you," he snarls angrily. "What do you believe in, huh? What do you believe in—?"_

_His voice cuts off with a choking noise as the goon crouches above him and shoves something into the manager's mouth. She can't see what from her current angle. Breathing deep, she takes the risk and crawls forward about ten feet. Closer, now. Almost too close. She can actually see the victim's terrified face._

_But the clown does answer his question. In a dangerous, scathing tone._

"_I believe whatever doesn't kill you simply makes you…" he trails off as he reaches up to pull off his mask. She screams and claps a hand over her mouth._

"…_stranger."_

_He sneers and moves away, trailing behind a wire or a string that's attached to the grenade in the manager's mouth, taking it with him. He hops into the back of the bus and shuts the door on it, holding it in place._

_She can't even fathom what's happening or what's going to happen; she's still reeling from the shock of seeing _his _face. There is no question, with all that makeup they've been hearing about, of who he is._

The Joker, ladies and gentlemen._ And as of now, she's survived. Survived an encounter with the _Joker._ Why or how, she'll never know._

_And she had been right about his mask. An everlasting frown to cover up a permanent smile._

_Terrifying. Truly. Madness. Chaos. All soon to come._

_The engine of the bus starts, and it begins to pull away from the bank's entrance._

_The string pulls taught, just for a second, and yanks the pin out of the grenade._

_It starts to smoke._

_The manager moans._

_She is a blur of motion, springing to her feet and heading toward the bus-made exit at a dead sprint. Running for her life. No grenade for her, no reason to stay behind. But she hopes that anyone who _can_ is following her._

_Desperate, hysterical. No time to think._

Why am I alive? How?

_She makes it out just before the explosion racks the entire building behind her._

* * *

><p>I shoot upright in bed, sweating profusely and breathing heavily, covers tangled about my legs. Shakily, I lift my palms to wipe the sheet a sweat from my forehead. And I'd been going quite some time without having one of them…<p>

What do these dreams mean?

It's my sanity, saying good-bye.

Yep. "I'm blowing a fuse," I mutter, shivering.

Probably. I had all but forgotten the first two, but now this one? It had been the strangest of them all.

I realize that my window, the one nearest to the head of my bed, is open. The wind had picked up during the night, and it roars around the emptiness outside. I listen to it howl. Oddly enough, the sound helps calm me down enough to do some thinking.

_Jonathan's on vacation. It's two in the way-early morning of Thursday, June 25__th__. I've been at my new job for three days already, and I'm meeting with Naomi and some girls when I get off work tonight. _I pause in my whirlwind of thoughts.

_Oh, yeah. I'm going nuts._

There it is.

Who was that woman? The men in clown masks? The impossible Mob bank robbery?

…the Joker?

I don't know who _he_ is, but he sounds like one of those big-name criminals. To me, these dreams are like a series. Dark and violent. And confusing. Just how messed up is my brain?

I mean, crooks in masks and costumes aren't new in Gotham. One of the biggest ones I've heard about was a fellow who called himself the Cleaver, back in the 70's. More of a serial killer than a petty thief. But the cops nabbed him somehow. No one likes to talk about him much.

_Part of the reason Commissioner Loeb is so smiled upon now,_ I think sourly.

And now, with horror, I realize that because of the daydreaming path my thoughts have taken, the dream is fading out of sight. Like all the others.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and strain-strain-strain-strain to remember, but come up with a blank. "Dammit!" I exclaim angrily.

I should start writing these down. Now, I'm left with nothing more than a haunting memory. How can they be so detailed and so real, but can vanish within five minutes?

Frustrated, I take my hands away from my face. It feels like my brain is turning to mush and leaking out of my ears. For ten minutes, I sit there and try to remember, but…nothing. Nada. Zip.

My name should be Spacey Stacey.

Next, I lay back down in bed, covers off, and try to get some more sleep. After a while, I deduce that this is also not happening. Grand. I need sleep but can't reach it.

I get out of bed and cautiously walk over to the open window. The darkness, broken by the huge lightpost in our yard, presses against my eyes.

No crows. Now that both the Cranes are gone, there are no crows. Peace. I look out across the cornfield for their house. Pitch-black. No lights. No yelling. Eerie silence.

_There's something else in that cornfield._

My eyes then fall to the tree just outside my window. One sturdy, gnarled branch reaches out to me, taunting me, tempting me. Calling me. Should I?

Oh, well. I have insomnia anyway.

With less difficulty than the last time, I manage to scramble down the knobby tree trunk. _What am I doing? What am I doing?_

I don't even know.

My feet hit newly grown grass, and I take off running. Into the cornfield. Disregarding any possibility of rabies-infested creatures and dangerous criminals. As stupid as I may seem to you, I do not have a death wish.

I make it through the cornfield unscathed. There's the clearing. And there's the scarecrow, as creepy and lonely as I'd remembered it. I sink to the ground before it, staring up at its burlap face.

I'm clinging to a memory. Of him. No matter how bad it may be. With no crows in the sky, the scarecrow isn't all that scary.

"_Scarecrow! Scarecrow! Johnny Rake's a scarecrow!"_

I press my forehead to my knees. I really just want to forget all that. Old haunts. Bad memories. I sigh. How will I survive? Have I really come to lean on him that much?

The scarecrow sways in the strong wind. My hair whips around my head. The corn is nearly done growing, and so it moves, too. Rustling. My main fear is that the scarecrow will topple over and crash down on top of me.

Through my sketching and through my actions right now, I've come to think that the scarecrow, in a way, symbolizes Jonathan. Skinny, like him. Freaky, like him. Abused, like him. But for me, through indirectly, it keeps the crows away.

How symbolic.

I'm not sure how long I sit there in the cornfield, but eventually, somehow, I make it back to my house, climb the tree, and haul myself into bed. And now, I'm cold and tired enough to burrow into the warmth of the covers and fall asleep.

* * *

><p>Mom wakes me up at ten without a word, before leaving to go to her appointment. I'll leave at eleven thirty; I know that by now. My job is pretty routine: shelve books, check them for damage, and help people who ask for it. And I don't even have to be in uniform. Only a nametag.<p>

Let's just forget my insanity from this morning. Not good for my health.

I like to think on little, non-Jonathan things. Like Don. And my job. And how my life is going down the toilet.

Don… Don is starting to change. Majorly. I frown as get my head stuck in Mom's borrowed sweater. At work, these three days, he's changed. Quite gradually over the short time period. He's still nice but very…inquisitive. Personal questions. Mostly about me, my past, and my mother. Especially my mother. Light in general but pressing enough to make me uncomfortable.

Though I still like Don well enough, I seem to have the urge to avoid him now. Most of my time spent working yesterday had been dedicated to this.

He's too interested in me. I don't like it.

_But he is cute. And nice. Very nice._

_Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe he really is interested in me._ I know how I can be.

_Why? He's too old! Off-limits!_

It's all too complicated; I'm confused. How do I remain cautious, but still maintain that roll-with-the-punches attitude?

Remain awkward.

As usual (these past three days anyway), I get to work right on time. I try to hurry past the front desks and librarians as quickly as I'm able.

"Hey, Ames! How's your mom? She good today?" Don calls out me as I rush past him to check in.

I blush (dangit) and toss back over my shoulder a simple, "Fine."

"And what did you say her name was again?"

Well, I don't want to be rude. And he's still cute, with that blonde hair falling into his always-sparkling eyes. I sigh in defeat, growing farther away.

"Jane."

And I'm gone.

I'm also quite surprised at myself; I find that now, I'm looking forward to the night out. It'll take my mind off things. If I'm lucky, this'll bring me further in the direction of becoming a social butterfly. I'm actually going _out_, for practically the first time in my life. Something I've never seen for myself. I've always viewed myself as a social recluse, not even worth glancing at. Now, Jonathan's gone, I'm getting not-entirely-unwanted attention from Don, and other, less-snobby girls are noticing me.

Oh joy.

In a way, I don't want to… I don't like it. Part of me wants to cling to my old self, to keep only that special, odd relationship Jonathan and I have. It's just the weird feeling that he…should be my only friend. It's a staggering realization.

And Lord, I feel like I'm betraying him.

I'll admit, I'm not known for being _unfriendly._ I'm just…not known. But I guess not for long.

Five o'clock rolls around eventually, and with a permanent furrow in my brow, I glance at the clock on the wall and decide to sign out. After, I dread going back up front but do it anyway. I wheel my now-empty cart back up front and set aside the two damaged books I'd discovered shoved far back, hidden, into their shelves. Poor things.

_Ugh, Don. Maybe I can avoid him…_

I nod to Mr. Kipling, who's nearby, and freeze when I'm near the front doors.

"Ames!" Naomi calls out, waving. She runs up to me and gives me a hug. Taken aback, I awkwardly pat her on the shoulder. Kelly and Annie stand just inside of the glass doors, waiting. She releases me, and I give her a once-over, thinking immediately that I'm quite underdressed for this.

Naomi has the cute little blouse and skirt ensemble going on. Her chocolate brown skin glows, her makeup is perfectly glorious, and her dark mocha-colored hair curls prettily around her face. Annie and Kelly look very similar.

I'm an ogre. What else is new?

"So you work here?" Naomi asks lightly, casting her sparkling gaze around the library.

"Um, yeah—" I cut off when I realize that Naomi is no longer paying attention to a word I'm saying. Instead, she's standing stock-still with both hands clasped over her heart, luminous brown eyes fixed straight ahead. On something.

Or someone.

"Who's that?" she breathes, awestruck.

"Who?" I ask, frowning, and turn around.

Don. She's staring at Don. And he's staring right back at her. With a thunderstruck expression on his face. Anyone passing by, even without knowing what's really going on, would be able to tell that he is only one thing:

Whipped.

Typical.

With me looking on, Don and Naomi walk toward each other, and I'm forced to watch them make goo-goo eyes at the other.

_Age difference doesn't stop her. That's it; I'm done._ I could _never _compare to Naomi. Unable to watch the gloppy introductions, I spin around to Annie and Kelly, fully expecting them to be reacting in a similar manner to mine. I find the opposite. The two girls are squealing, jumping up and down with interlocked hands.

I openly roll my eyes. This won't work out at all for me. I guess, with Don now occupied with a new interest, that I'm relieved.

Not exactly heartbroken.

Five minutes later, Naomi bounces away from Don with his phone number clenched in her fist, while he ogles admiringly at her back. There's something deceptive about it. Once we're outside, we all pile into Naomi's cute Volkswagen Beetle. I end up squished between Annie and Kelly. All their purses are piled into the front seat.

Naomi starts the car and pulls onto the street. "Wasn't he just dreamy?" she gushes.

"A hunk," Annie agrees.

"A-list hottie," Kelly adds.

_I work with him,_ I think.

I resist the urge to smother my ears with my hands. My bad mood steadily worsens as I listen to them babble for ten minutes. Then it comes to me that we're driving through downtown Gotham, and I'm forced to interrupt the nauseating conversation. "Um, sorry. Naomi? What exactly are we doing this evening?"

Naomi giggles, still blushing. "Oh! Well, _Sleepless in Seattle_ came out today, so we're going to the movie theater. I've been wanting to see it forever!"

With difficulty, my hand snakes down to touch my jeans' pocket and the money I randomly stuffed in there this morning. "Think six bucks will cover it?"

"Without a doubt."

I'm pretty silent for the rest of the trip, but I can't shake the feeling of dread that I've acquired over the past hour. Most of the time, now that it's twilight, I stare at the lights of the city. Beautiful.

A pop song comes on the radio, and all three girls sing at the top of their lungs and dance around in their seats. I'm the only one not moving. Scowling and unseen, instead. Too peppy, too silly, too shallow… Disgusting.

I'm stuck in a car filled with girls dressed like women of loose-moral character. But I won't hurt anyone's feeling with my dark side and pissy thoughts.

The rest of the way is spent gossiping. At one point, Naomi lets something slip (about Summer, I think) and turns around anxiously in the front seat, looking at me imploringly, asking, "You won't tell her I said that, will you, Ames?"

I had missed it but assure her I won't. "My lips are sealed up tighter than a popcorn's fart," I promise. Silence in the car. I flush.

She pulls onto a brightly lit street. "Let's park here," Naomi decides. "I don't mind walking a bit." And that's how we do it. A group of four strolling up the sidewalk, casual as you please, chit-chatting the whole way. Not me.

Alleyways everywhere. I can see the small movie theater up ahead. Then, Naomi surprises me again by throwing an arm around my neck as we near another alley. "Thanks so much for coming," she whispers. It really means that much to her?

I'm about to open my mouth and respond when I glimpse something near the mouth of the alleyway ahead. And suddenly, I remember. Too late.

Falcone has spies everywhere. The other girls are oblivious to the figure's presence. I'm not. Our eyes meet. In the shadows, the henchman looks at me, and then looks at Naomi.

And smiles.

He has seen.

As a result, Falcone will know.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry to leave off on a somber note. And yup, this was a filler.**

**The first thing I'm going to do is ask for help on the timeline of the Batman movies. I think I've got the years figured out ok. 8 months between _Batman Begins _and _The Dark Knight,_ and 8 years between _The Dark Knight_ and _The Dark Knight Rises._ But in the first movie, the time of months screw me up. At one point, it's Bruce Wayne's birthday, which is February 19. But it didn't look like February most of the time. Maybe ****Gotham****'s weather is different? I don't know. HELP is greatly appreciated. HELP!**

**In case you were wondering, the average price of a movie ticket in 1993 was $5.50. I'm just trying to be accurate.**

**Question of the Day: Pretty basic, what's your favorite color?**

**Please leave a review! It's in your best interest, and I try to get back to everyone. I take ideas, and some people can testify, I do give scant hints of what's to come. ;)**

**The absent Jonathan will be helped next chapter. :D**

**SEE YA!**


	21. Under the Hood

**A/N: Later than I like again. The play and Anatomy are taking up my life.**

**I am still undecided on whether or not that was the last flashback or not. I love them, because it helps me set the future in motions, but at the same time, it feels like I'm giving too much away. So…UNDECIDED. They will stop after a certain event or after a certain point, though.**

**For anyone who has read the books or not, I recommend that you see the _Hunger Games._ It's NOT just a teenage fancy. Very few movies leave me speechless, and that was one of them.**

**Just a warning to you all, under no circumstances have I EVER had to escape from a house or break someone out of one. I'll do my best toward the end here, and remember that I can always rewrite it.**

**My favorite colors are gray, black, red, BLUE, and thanks to a certain movie character, GREEN.**

**BEST SONG EVER is "Beat the Devil's Tattoo" by the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (BRMC).**

**Thanks to **SladeRavenFan, Arlena4815162342, Wafia Primo, LittleMissAngel, linnie kinda spinnie, Knightrunner, My Purple Skies, Thunderscourge, Nadezhdaa, pourquoibella, Comidia Del Arte, Zetsubel, Decepticon-silverstreak, Thanatos Angelos Girl, Silential, Fruityloops87, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, InLoveAndCrazy, tribute14, MadTeaLady, SilhouetteGypsy, **and **Phantom of the Common Room **for the reviews! You people really do blow me away….**

**Disclaimer: Meh. Feeling lazy. I OWN NOTHING!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-One: Under the Hood<strong>

_Sometimes I take things_

_Way too far._

_Irrational feeling;_

_I just try too hard._

_But what goes up, must come down._

_The problem is I have no bounds because,_

_Sometimes I take things_

_Way too far._

_**~Korn, Way Too Far**_

* * *

><p><em>Sketch-sketch-sketch. Sketch-sketch-sketch.<em>

My butt is firmly planted on the couch in our living room. I'm lazy again. And yes, I'm drawing. Though I'm not sure what. There's that scarecrow again…and a bunch of squiggles and lines. I'm obsessed.

It seems I'm going quite stir-crazy without Jonathan around.

Missing him is tough to deal with. Only a few more weeks. I'm just don't know what to do with myself.

_Thank goodness it's Friday…_ It's also been one week since my outing with Naomi and the girls. _Sleepless in Seattle_ had actually been a good movie to watch. Because the other girls had chosen it, I was a little skeptical at first, but found myself enjoying it anyway. The rest of the night had been soured by Naomi reverting back to gushing over Don.

A lot happens in a week. Two days later, Naomi had called me and announced that she and Don were officially a couple. My previous jealousy had briefly flared, but had then flickered to a quiet smolder. I guess I don't really mind (she took him off my hands), but like I said, a lot happens in a week. It's Friday, July 3rd.

I'm getting worried. Not really worried; more like a little nervous.

Yesterday, Kelly called, five days after the "couple" thing and had projected her fretting into my ear. Naomi wouldn't hang out with her; she's too busy with Don. Naomi kept their phone calls short; Don was on the other line. According to my short, awkward chat with Kelly, this past week, Naomi has been all about Don, Don, Don. And Kelly would know. She and Naomi, apparently, are besties.

Naomi's too involved. I don't like it. And Don…how could his interests change from me to her so quickly? At my job, except for the occasional question about mine and my mom's well-being, he no longer pesters me. The worst I've caught him doing is staring at me a little too long. But thing's have changed.

I don't really have a reason to be suspicious, but I don't want Naomi to get hurt. She's nice, and I like her.

Today is July 3rd. Tomorrow is Independence Day. Mom and I have never done anything special for the Fourth of July. Sometimes, _sometimes,_ we'll drive to the edge of the city and watch the fireworks go off. A grand display. Lots of money spent. Could be used for the poor. Each year. That's what I think _each year_.

_I can't believe summer's almost over…but Jonathan will be home soon. I hope._

I draw a lopsided star, which is quickly crossed out.

I won't be watching the fireworks this year. But maybe Mom will. I hope Mom will. Because I'm planning something for tomorrow. The problem is this: I don't quite know what, but it has to do with helping Jonathan escape his house. Or at least loosen up the security.

But how?

Exactly why July 4th would be a great time. Hopefully, Mom won't be around to ask what the hell I'm doing in our neighbors' yard.

Well, I've got my schedule for the next day figured out. Jolly. I think I'll go upstairs and do a dance now.

Tossing the pencil and notebook aside, I leave the living room. Mom is still sitting at the dining room table, wearing her nice coat and deeply engrossed in her planner. I have to get past her to get to the stairs. Ever since our relationship had weakened, I feel the need to sneak around her. Even for something as small as this. Miniscule.

But Mom does that thing that all parents do, where they can see you out of the back of their heads, because her voice stops me. "Stay down here."

My classic response: "Why?"

Mom must be feeling more tolerant of me today, because she snaps her planner shut, drums her manicured fingernails on the table, and announces, "We're going to the grocery store."

"'We?' As in 'you and I'?"

"Yes, And by the way, I've scheduled your senior pictures for next Friday. You're welcome. They'll start at five."

…!

Talk about short notice. Who's even doing them?

I find myself temporarily speechless. Is she trying to win me back again? Now what does she want? A foot massage? Why all the sudden kindness?

Apparently, my brain quits functioning, too, because the only answer I can come up with is, "'Kay." And that's that.

I let Mom drive, and the whole way to downtown Gotham (Mom has somehow memorized a way that I'll never know, one that _doesn't_ involve driving through the Narrows) is spent in stiff, uncomfortable silence. But the fact that it's the day before the Fourth of July keeps me interested in the activities outside Mom's Buick LaSabre.

You see, for some reason, at this particular time of the year, the amount of protests, stakeouts, and picketing double on the streets and sidewalks, making traffic navigation difficult. It's got something to do with the notion of Independence Day.

I find it all rather hilarious. Despite Mom's scowl, I roll down my window and gawp freely. As I'd expected, a majority of the protestors are poor citizens. The street our grocery/hardware store is particularly bad. They get so close to us that a few signs, held by grubby hands, come within five inches of my face. Occasionally, I smell wet paint and filth. Tents are lined up on the sidewalks for campouts, and lo and behold, the cops are already out to keep an eye on things.

Huzzah. Chants fill the air as protestors push against law enforcers.

"Ames, that's enough. Roll up the window."

I ignore Mom, taking in the sights as we pull into a tight parking space. The Cubbyhole. Nice name for a store.

I hear more yelling, more car horns, and the sound of something breaking. "People are going ape-shit out there," I remark loudly, still entertained. Street after street of this.

Mom warns, "Ames…" before cutting the car's engine. I mentally stick my tongue out at her before putting the window up. We exit the vehicle and she locks the doors.

"Nice day for rebellions, don't ya think?" I ask brightly, suddenly in a terrific mood.

"Inappropriate comments at inappropriate times," Mom snaps.

I give her car a nice pat before walking off. "Don't get busted up while we're away, Susie."

"Naming cars is not normal, Ames. Neither is talking to them."

I won't dignify that with a response. I love being annoying sometimes.

However, I do stay close to Mother Hen as we make our way to the store. It reeks out here, and everyone is packed so tightly around us. It can get mighty violent…

I think I get groped twice.

The inside of the Cubbyhole is actually rather calm and quiet in contrast. With the population outside what it is, the population inside appears to be less. Plenty of people, yes, but more orderly.

Everything's cheap here. Hardware and groceries in one. The overall setting has a grimy, rough look to it. I wrinkle my nose. But what can you do?

"Feel free to wander around," Mom tells me, waving me off. "I'll be about twenty minutes." Does having the day off create a change in her?

I give Mom a skeptical look. "Okay." And I wander.

The whole store is large, bigger than I'd thought. I think there are even doors in back that lead to the outside, because I see a couple employees smoking near that area. And one of the doors is propped open, so…yeah.

Heh. They even play lazy, instrumental music over the intercom. Like an elevator.

By some circumstance, though, my treacherous feet lead me into the hardware section of the store. What the hell am I doing here? I can't use anything but a screwdriver and hammer; I don't know what three-fourths of these tools are, but I'm here anyway. How do you _identify_ these things? It all looks the same!

I'm stressed out by simply _standing _in this section.

But one thought keeps me rooted in place, explaining my actions. _Jonathan._

Did I mention that this specific aisle smells like motor oil and old socks?

I hear a trashcan being tipped over somewhere outside. Or being chucked at a car. Or building. More yelling, a grand crescendo. It dies off and my thoughts return.

_Now what did Jonathan say about his imprisonment? He's trapped in or something?_

Changed locks. Bars on his window.

Okay, I cannot do anything about the locks unless I break in. And I don't want to be a criminal. And those, Geraldine can easily replace again.

But the bars…the bars. It's a two-story house. What good would it do to remove the bars from his bedroom window? If Jonathan needs to escape, he can't jump! And what bars are they? Screwed in individually, popped in, or screwed in together into one frame? I'm sure his grandmother didn't install them herself. Would the same guy come to install them again after they've mysteriously been removed? He would have to suspect something was up! But it would be none of his business, so who knows?

I look at the spreads and spreads of tools in front of me. I should keep all my options in mind.

Well, for the bars, I could somehow unscrew them one by one, but if they're a set… I gulp and hope the terror doesn't register on my face. I would need to find a means of yanking them out all at once. I think we've got a ladder somewhere in our backyard at home; I'll need to use it. And to yank a set of bars out all at once…I would have to use a rope. And a weight of sorts. And jump off it.

Just how far am I willing to go to help Jonathan?

The answer surprises me with how fast it comes: all the way.

I am _way_ too attached. Or maybe I'm just allowing myself to care for another human being. A boy nonetheless. I cover my eyes with my hands.

I must've needed a distraction, because I'm given one.

While I'm standing there, I look up. And freeze, like a deer caught in the headlights. Not a distraction I'd wanted. Randomly, _randomly,_ I had glanced up in time to see someone pause in their walking between aisles. Short in stature. Bleached hair. Zitty face. Gross.

Paul.

I internally panic. Dark presses against my insides. My vision clouds over, narrows. _What the hell is he doing here?_ I can't move; I can't do anything, no matter how brave I claim to be and how much I want to take the skin off this kid and turn it into a lampshade. A little graphic, but still, I mean it. Every word. Maybe he didn't see me…

"HEY!"

Oh, crap.

I make a beeline for another aisle away from the tools. Paul follows on my heels like a desperate puppy. I go from frightened to pissed off. Who does this guy think he is?

"Hi, Ames! I've missed you a lot," Paul breathes as I stride through the grocery store. "You look great. Nice eyes. Nice thighs. Hey, we haven't made brownies together yet. Let's make a time!"

Are you freaking kidding me? My skin crawls and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He's…not playing with a full deck. But I guess I already know that.

"Can you stop following me?" I snap over my shoulder at the creep, near to exploding. "I have the overwhelming urge to find a giant flyswatter."

If anything, this encourages him. I sense a hand about to find its way onto my shoulder, and I speed up the pace. My skin is going to leap right off my freaking body. I take a sharp right into the feminine products section. He follows me there, too.

What the—?

"I like that, Ames. You're funny. And smart. And pretty. Don't you like me? I like you. A lot. My girl. We belong together."

If I wasn't being chased, I'd drop to my knees right now and holler "Why me?" into the ceiling of the store. There is nowhere to go. As much as I hate it, I need to find Mom. More crashing and breaking from the protest outside.

I change my course, looking to head towards the front of the store. Screw buying the escape supplies; I'm sure we've got those at home somewhere. Clammy sweat beads on my forehead. I feel sick. The hot day does nothing to help my current situation.

"Aw, what's the matter, Ames? Do I make you uncomfortable? Want me to make it better? I'll love you up. I'll have you. You're my girl."

Ew, ew, ew, ew. I clench my fists. Almost there…the front of the store…almost to safety.

"There's no Scarecrow here to save you now."

I stop dead. Rage boils up inside me. Suddenly, I don't care if people are watching.

_How dare he! _my head screams. _How dare he refer to Jonathan that way!_

I spin around and grab Paul by the collar of his shirt with both hands. His cocky grin slides from his greasy face, and those small eyes widen. I'm already taller than him by quite a bit, but being nearly six feet tall has advantages. I tower over people, especially when I'm enraged, making me ten times scarier than I really am.

"Who do you _think_ you _are_?" I snarl into his face. This isn't me. "You think you can _call_ him that in _front_ of me? You think you're _entitled_ to? You think you _deserve_ to? You think you're _allowed_ to? NO ONE is, bully!"

Everyone in the store has turned to stare at us. Conversations stop. At that moment, I don't care. I'm defending a friend, and my main goal is to make Paul Rubin piss his pants.

"I'm going to tell you right now that if you don't leave _him_ alone and if you don't leave _me_ alone, I'm going to tear your frickin' _head_ off," I threaten in a lower-toned, richer voice. It's mine, but not. Dangerous. Deadly. Beautiful. Effective.

I don't give it time to sink in to Paul. I throw him away from me without looking to see where he goes (a display of cans, I think), and while forgetting about Mom, head straight out the doors and into the protest, the eyes of customers glued to my back.

Damn. That felt good.

But I'm willing to bet that a few of the people in there watching know who I am and probably know my mom personally. I'm a disgrace, and I've just thrown my reputation to the birds. Oh, well. I'll regret it later, but now I don't give a shit.

Immediately after going outside into the crowd (Mom is now no doubt searching for me throughout the store and getting the horrifying news), I get swept up in the throng of chanting people, cops, and signs. It's just verging on violence. A glass bottle whizzes past my head. I duck and the color drains from my face. Never mind, already there. And the mass of people has grown; I can't even describe it.

Now I smell sweat…and something burning. Colognes and perfumes. All in broad daylight. Everything seems to be happening so quickly. In flashes and blurs.

Nearby, someone sets off a string of firecrackers. I jump a foot in the air at the loud popping sounds. A few people scream, others laugh raucously. At least it's not gunfire. There's already police here for crowd control. But as fast as _this_ protest is spinning _out_ of control, they've probably called for more reinforcements.

I end up smushed next to some kids a few years older than me toward the back of the mob. Against the wall of a building.

A gentle hand rests on my shoulder. "Now, you shouldn't be in this mess, young lady."

Starting again, I twist to my left to find the owner of the kindly voice. A fatherly-looking man in a GCPD uniform is holding me in his gaze with genuine concern on his face. "You're too young to be here, miss. The street's been blocked off. Please, go."

The "please" makes me hesitate. It's possible that this man…is a good cop. He's only about two inches shorter than me and looks to be in late-thirties. A neatly-trimmed mustache and clean brown hair with scarce salt-and-pepper flecks at the hairline completes the look of an honest man.

I still can't answer. I just stare. This man radiates comfort. And warmth. It draws me in.

The wailing of police sirens draw nearer. Still, I can't look away.

I'm about to open my mouth and answer the cop when another one beats me to it. "Gordon! Get your ass over here!"

An expression of regret washes over his face. "Leave, please," he pleads before disappearing into the crowd.

On impulse, I yell after him, "Stay safe! You're a good cop!" My eyebrows go down in worry. A few people curse at him and take shots at hitting him as he retreats to help a fellow officer.

I don't like this. Maybe I should leave… I take a few steps forward, but I trod on someone's foot.

"Sorry," I apologize in a squeaky voice. A male. Figures.

_He's only a few years older than me! What brings him to a protest like this?_ I think as the guy straightens up after furiously rubbing his toes. He seems oddly out of place, wearing a bright green jacket made of parachute material.

He looks up at me and smiles in a happy way. "Nah, it's okay." There's a bright light in his eyes. "Hey. Wanna hear a riddle?"

Well, we're both pressed flat against a building. What the heck. I shrug. "Sure."

"Okay. Riddle me this: when I point up, it's bright. When I point down, it's dark. What am I?" He waggles his eyebrows at me.

I've never been good at this sort of thing, and now, I'm stumped. A sigh. "No idea. What?"

The boy grins triumphantly. "A lightswitch!"

I chuckle easily. "Smart."

"How 'bout another?" This dude likes to play with your mind. In a good way.

I almost groan. "I have no idea who you are. Why not?" It seems I can only socialize with strange and unusual people. Sad.

"What has four wheels and flies?"

_I know this one… I know it…_ But I seem unable to reach back into the farthest crevices of my mind to get the answer. A childhood memory. I give up. "An airplane?"

The strange guy claps his hands, getting the smallest joy out of stumping people. "A garbage truck!"

It would be funny if I wasn't feeling so stupid. "Nice."

His clever eyes gaze straight ahead, past me. "Oops! Looks like you've got company." With a wink, he begins his own rabid shouting and vanishes into the writhing mass of protestors.

Company? Wha—?

Hi, Mom.

I am fairly led away from the crowd of people by my ear. Her anger and frustration comes through again as we fight through the swarms to reach her car. "I've never been so embarrassed in my life! You scaring the wits out of that poor boy! You made both of us look bad. Ames, I _knew_ half the people in that store! Imagine how I felt!"

I'm not going to say anything.

"And then you had to run off into a full-blown protest! What nerve! How do you think I felt when I realized that you were gone? I couldn't find you! And the next thing I know, you're talking to strange men! Get in the car."

We've arrived at Susie. I do as I'm told. Silently fuming, Mom turns the car on.

I bite my lip and feel that I should tell her what that nice Gordon cop had told me. That you can't get through here anymore.

Apparently, though, Mom doesn't seem to give two hoots about whether the street is blocked off or not. She just goes on ahead, before continuing with her fretful scolding. I tune her out and seriously consider rolling down my window again. No, thanks. I'd rather live.

It's just for a moment, but I think I see the flash of an obnoxiously green jacket in the cluster of bodies on the sidewalk.

More cops than earlier. I try to find _my_ cop, but all to no avail. He would blend into the others easily.

Curiouser and curiouser. I'll probably never see either of them again.

"Ames, are you listening to me?"

Nope.

I lie. "Yep." It's almost five o'clock. And we're out of the city now.

Mom clears her throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I was just thinking about your punishment. You'll be staying home tomorrow, while I go to the city for the fireworks."

I perk up from my slouch, suddenly alert and listening. "What?"

Mom thinks I'm in disbelief. I am, but in a positive way. "That's right. You're staying home, as a result of your actions today."

I remain silent, to give off the impression that I'm somehow disappointed. She doesn't know it, but she's just given me the perfect opportunity to spring Jonathan. To tell you the truth, Mom knows about Jonathan's abuse but believes that it's none of our business. No interference. Not our place. One thing she doesn't know about, however, is the friendship between Crane and me. Or my plan.

I'm not sure what Mom's reaction would be if she found out. Fury? Nah. Exasperation? Probably. She'd blame it on my nosiness, say I could do better than him.

First I would have to assure her that it isn't a dating thing. But it will be in my best interest to keep this relationship from her. Too many questions, too many complications. Originally, Jonathan had wanted both of us to stay out of his life. I forced myself in, and he's been forced to deal with that. He doesn't need Mom, too. She doesn't even care.

Is he really "forced" to deal with me, though? Didn't he admit to being unhealthily attached to me as well? I guess so; I don't know anymore.

Maybe I'll tell her one day. For shock value. Right now, I _should_ be thanking her. I smile to myself. Paul, the cop, the riddling boy, and now this. Apart from what I'm planning for tomorrow, will next week be this weird?

Mom sees my smile. "Do you think this is funny?" We're on the gravel homestretch.

The faint grin vanishes from my face, and I slouch back down in my seat again. "What do you think? I'm devastated. So no, I don't think this is funny." I plaster a solemn pout onto my face.

She gives me one last suspicious glance before pulling into our driveway. Her next step? She banishes me to my room. Which really, I have no problem with. It's my sanctuary, my happy place. After blowing up uncharacteristically today, it's best if I'm kept away from the rest of the general population.

Mom follows through on her threat. I'm home by myself when she leaves to catch the nine o'clock fireworks the next day. Good time; it's just dark enough for me and her.

So after I see her headlights disappear around the turnoff, I figure it's time to put my hazy plan into action. I'm still unsure of what I'm planning to do. It all depends on what I find in the shed out back and what I find on his bedroom window when I get to that point.

How ironic and coincidental. Independence Day. For the country and for Jonathan. I'm giddy; this can't be any more perfect!

I had been extremely careful today. Acting innocent, and I'd even remembered to wear dark clothing, just in case I'm to be seen tonight.

Time to go.

I run to the living room, alive with energy, and drop to my knees in front of the couch, peering under it for the flashlight I'd stashed there earlier. I seize it and flick the switch on and off once. Bright. And then I'm outside. It's darker out than I'd expected it to be. Gorgeous night for fireworks, too.

With the flashlight as my guide, a thin beam across the lawn, I reach the tool shed. It hasn't been touched for years, so I'm pleasantly surprised when the creaky door opens without a hitch. A musty smell fills my nostrils. And I step inside, the hair on the back of my neck standing up freely.

The faint glow of my light illuminates expected things. Cobwebs, dusty air, a beetle skittering up a wall. Tools and machinery. Those are the most important for me, and I don't need half of them. I'm also praying that no nightmarish beasties fly out of a corner and latch onto one of my legs. I would die of heart attack first.

After some searching, I come up with a filthy crowbar, a screwdriver, and one other knickknack that had looked useful when I'd found it lodged under a toolbox.

If I remember correctly, that ladder should still be propped against the back of the shed.

My flashlight flickers for a moment and dies, enveloping me in blackness as a result. Thank goodness I'd had sense enough not to shut the shed door. Now, I have some dim, dark lighting from the moon coming in from that opening.

I venture forth as quickly as I'm able to. I bang my shin once, knock something over twice. I'm fantastically graceful.

I pass too closely to the old doorframe when I stroll through it. In my mind's eye, I see the nail before I actually run into it. A small tug on my face, then the skin gives way. Pain, a trickle of blood. I clap a hand to my mouth as I stumble out of the cursed shed and toss the tools onto the ground. The flashlight flares back on when it lands.

Frick, frick, frickin' FRICK!

Damnit.

Fu—nope.

I drop down on the grass immediately and use my shirt to wipe the blood away from my mouth and cheek. Dull pain now. Not so bad. It stings. With careful fingers, I trace around to feel out the gash in my face. Okay…not a gash. A shallow scrape, about one inch long. Still bleeding, and stretching from the corner of my right nostril to one of the higher dimples above my mouth. Since I'd obviously walked headfirst into a nail, the damage could be worse. An eye lost or even a larger puncture wound in a more vital place. In all my temporary blindness, I had somehow gotten lucky.

And…senior pictures are in one week. I groan, hand still pressed to the spot, and fall backwards. You know what? I'll just say it. Screw decency; I've been wanting to say it.

Shitfuck.

Zoinks. Who knew I had a sailor's mouth? For the last time, I hope.

_The things I do for Jonathan…_ Despite all, I chuckle. The stinging, annoying pain makes me alert.

_Boom!_ There. The fireworks have started. On my back like this, if I tilt my head up just a smidge…I can see them, small as they are or may appear. How's Jonathan spending his Fourth, I wonder?

I don't wanna think about it.

My favorite firework goes off. A "weeping willow." Subtle and quiet, branches of glittering gold creeping down and lingering in the sky. One of the years Mom and I were watching, a large one went off and the resulting boom was so loud that it set off thirteen car alarms. That gave us a laugh.

I'm not bleeding anymore. I blow air up onto the scratch to help it dry. If that scars (which it will)…then I'll live with it.

The fireworks speed up and slow down at intervals. A whole array at once or one at a time. Enough lounging around. I sit up. This needs to be done before the grand finale.

What I'm about to do doesn't fully hit me until I look down at all my tools scattered around in the grass, lit up by the display above.

I'm going to vandalize a house. Grand.

I gather everything together in one arm and rush to the back of the shed to grab the rickety metal ladder. It's big and heavy, but I'm also strong. Because of my load, I'll not go to the Cranes' house by way of cornfield; I'll walk along the gravel road. This time, I pray _harder_ that I don't walk into or get charged by anything.

I stop in front of the dark house and gaze up at it. And breathe.

A half hour later, I return empty-handed, only just starting to tremble with nerves. Mission accomplished. Done. I manage a weak smile as I use my arms to hug my chest, occasionally reaching a finger up to touch my now-dry scrape.

I'll give a quick rundown. The bars had been poorly installed and put in one by one individually. A little screwdriver action took care of them, and all that was left to do was to put them back into place loosely. Then the screwdriver, crowbar, and unnamed tool found their way through the window and into Jonathan's room, on the floor. If they rolled, I couldn't have seen them. Too dark.

Jonathan's room hadn't been _quite_ two stories up. So after I'd climbed back down the ladder, I had left it there, beside the window and propped against the peeling house. I reckon Geraldine doesn't go outside much, and if it were to be pushed, blown, or knocked over, it wouldn't be tough for Crane to put back up.

My brain holds limited knowledge to these things, and I hope it works out.

The grand finale in the sky above ends as I step onto my lawn.

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><p><strong>AN: This end note here will be pretty heavy. PLEASE TAKE TIME TO READ!**

**It seems I'm making up for Jonathan's absence with character cameos. The "riddle boy" may not appear again. At least, not as a major character.**

**Here's the heavy question. It's been on my mind for the past how many months… Should ****Ames**** lose her virginity in college? *blush* I'm seriously thinking about it. I would just mention it; I wouldn't actually write a scene or anything. I've got a feeling that she should, despite all her strong ideals. Too out of character? I feel that as my readers and reviewers, you have a right to know what the heck's going on in my head. Feedback is appreciated. She needs to…mature some.**

**Next, (non-_Avengers _fans don't have to pay attention to this) for the upcoming _Avengers_ film, a couple that has been on my mind for about a freaking YEAR, is Loki and Black Widow. *runs into a corner and hides* DON'T HIT ME! This hasn't come to my head from out of nowhere. It's being hinted at EVERYWHERE.**

**Seems I'm also a fan of one-glance pairings (1st _Avengers_ trailer), and to all you doubters, I'm pretty sure it just wasn't pieced together that way. Seemed like a complete scene to me. Not to mention the fact that I've seen some questionable set photos going around the internet, rumored to be a part of the filming, and the fact that Black Widow is the only female on the team makes me curious to see how she and Loki will interact and match up in a fight. Of course, hero/villain pairings never seem to happen.**

**AND THEN, Tom Hiddleston has to let something come through in an interview, so the conclusion is drawn that he'll meet his match in her. Quote from Tom: "_I loved playing my scene with Scarlett, which we've already shot, because Black Widow is sneaky, underhand, and she lurks in the shadows. She's smart and clever and duplicitous. And she's hard to trust. And all those adjectives could be used to describe Loki. So the scene between Loki and Black Widow is one where the recognize each other. And so I loved doing that and Scarlett was…we had a good round on that one_." (I love how he said "Black Widow"; that accent!) Scene from the trailer? I LOVE the pairing, but I don't know what to think anymore. I'm sure it's not just me, but Scarlett and Tom really seemed to bond quickly on set. That tends to happen between actors whose characters have romantic involvement. Not to mention that it was stated that in the _Avengers,_ the romance is kept less than in previous movies. Johansson said that there's no time for romance between her character and Hawkeye, and to keep the romance minimal but to not deny completely that the romance happens, well, that's perfect for who I'm thinking of.**

**Part of me believes that all this is just the wishful thinking of a fangirl, part of me suspects that it's true. Either way, I'm damn excited and can't get them out of my head. Opinions? Am I alone in my strange thoughts? You don't even KNOW how much I want this couple to happen. *sighs***

**Enough rambling. I'm a nut. HAPPY EASTER ALL!**

**Question of the Day: What is your favorite sound in the world?**

**Movie Recommendation: _Lost in Translation._ I love it! Star Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson, and is a wonderful tale of friendship. One of my favorite movies!**

**See you all next chapter. Jonathan will be back soon…we hope.**

**PLEASE LEAVE OPINIONS TO THE ABOVE STATEMENTS! A review counts.  
><strong>


	22. Is It Bright Where You Are?

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. It's been another busy week, but as school and the play are both winding down, it will get better. The play is going all right. We are not amazing, but we've got one more week before a performance. We MIGHT be ready. I'm not the best singer in the world, but I can sing high and loud when needed. Let's just say not everyone is dedicated.**

**Not much to say here, other than sorry that this chapter has a depressing start. And is basically that way the whole time. Summer ends soon.**

**Thanks to **Thunderscourge, BANEHiwatari, Comidia Del Arte, AylaAbbs, SladeRavenFan, Knightrunner, Decepticon-silverstreak, Arlena4815162342, Wafia Primo, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, corbsxx, LuminousFaith, Phantom of the Common Room, linnie kinda spinnie, trollFACE, tribute14, Zetsubel, jazzy-me123, Unquestionably Unhinged, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, pourquoibella, SilhouetteGypsy, Hawthorn Tree, MadTeaLady, **and **TheVengefulMermaid** for the reviews! You don't know how amazing you are… Sorry if I missed anyone.**

**My favorite sounds in the world right now are rain, thunderstorms, cellos, breaking glass, Irish brogues, and the sound of Tom Hiddleston's voice :D**

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING! Even if I did, I wouldn't be able to do as fantastic a job as Warner Bros. and Nolan have done.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Two: Is It Bright Where You Are?<strong>

_But if this ever-changin' world_

_In which we live in_

_Makes you give in and cry,_

_Say live and let die._

_Live and let die._

_**~Guns N' Roses, Live and Let Die**_

* * *

><p>"Hey."<p>

I squeak, drop the book I'm holding, and whack my shin against my cart.

"You're jumpy."

_Don._

My face burns as I bend over to pick up the copy of _Sybil_ that had met the floor in my moment of uneasiness and place it back onto the cart with nervous hands. Don's leaning up against the bookshelf I'd been scanning, right in front of me. I suddenly feel claustrophobic between the towering shelves. There's a ladder a ways down. I debate making a run for it and scrambling to the top. And I _had_ to choose a bookshelf that belongs in one of the sections at the _back_ of the library.

I don't know why I get so edgy when Don's around. He hasn't done anything to me or anyone else to derive this sort of reaction. Maybe it's the fact that he's so much older than Naomi and is dating her anyway. Maybe it's because he likes to ask a lot of questions that make me uncomfortable with sharing the answers of. But nothing that deserves any kind of alarm.

So why do I feel like I'm on the edge of a nervous breakdown whenever he's around?

And most importantly, why had he been so insistent on recruiting me to work at the library? I should be grateful; he brought it up and made me aware of the position, therefore getting me a job.

_Why?_

I try to act casual as I go about my shelving business. "Aren't you supposed to be up front?"

Don shrugs. "I'm on break."

_And seeking me out…_ Perfect. Of course. I find myself unable to dismiss him. Please, damn my hormones to the fiery pits of Hades, though he still makes me feel insecure, he just _has_ to be good-looking enough to make me scold myself about my…doubts. Dirty-blonde hair, casual physique, deceptively sparking eyes… _Deceptively, Ames?_ Really?

Gross. I've just totally checked him out. I think he knows.

Great singer, musical, puts you at ease during your first meeting… Lovely. Now I'm listing all of this guy's amiable qualities.

I swallow thickly and grab another book. Ignoring Don (or stalling) for the time being, I cast a swift glance at the spine, scan what I need, and place it on the appropriate shelf before facing Don wearily. I'm getting too old for this.

He's got the awful ability to make me feel like I'm under five feet tall.

So…now what? He's just standing there. This scene is all too familiar. My knees are fairly knocking; it's got to be time to get off soon.

Finally, Don speaks. "How's Jane?"

He's taken to calling Mom by her first name. Glorious. "Fine." My answer comes out as an angry rasp, barely above a whisper.

But next, Don doesn't inquire about me at all. Surprising, considering the usual routine. He gives me a crooked smile. "Glad to hear it. How's your friend Naomi?"

"She's not—" I automatically start to protest. Oh, who am I kidding? We went out together once. Good enough. I correct myself. "Naomi's great, actually. But you would know more about that than me, right?"

Don doesn't move once, eyes still glittering. "Silly of me to ask. I guess I would, toots." Imposing. "I'm…seeing…her soon."

Highly disconcerted and shaken, I give Don my back and walk away. No use. Best to leave him alone. To make it appear more natural and easier and less like running away, I stop at intervals to check books for placement and damage. Fuming.

What does this guy want Naomi for, anyway? He's older and it hadn't even taken him four minutes to fall in "love" with her. Too quickly and too interested for my liking. Why this fascination? This gross involvement? Why? What?

What's with all the questions I ask myself?

Once out of Don's line of sight, I slump against a sturdy shelf and resist the want to pull it over on top of me for my naivety. Amazing how one little thought can stop you in your tracks. I berate myself for not getting this sooner.

Duh. Don wants a lay. Or two. Or three. Or four. What better target than a young, nice girl? He has _got_ to be using her! Can I pull her out of this hole before it's too late?

_Naomi, look out._

Another bad thought. I pinch my nose between forefinger and thumb. Oh man, she isn't going to like this, but for her sake, she and I need to have a long, hard, girl-to-girl talk about Don and the relationship she's in with him.

Do you think I'd be able to do a background check? Now there's a thought. Oh boy.

My thoughts rapidly change direction as I wheel my cart into a completely different section to shelve something else. _Jonathan should be back by now. _Without him here, I've lost track of time. It's been one week—two—since July 4th. Senior pictures are done; I hadn't had any special feelings about those. They're not going to be gorgeous, since modeling is something I never do. And yes, the scratch on my face had been very prominent. Now I've got a humongous scab that's readying itself to leap off at any awkward moment. So far, I've prided myself in not picking at it; a scar is something else I don't need on my already-hated face.

Besides, I'd rather think about things like this instead of things like sex-crazed males.

My shin throbs.

I sigh when I realize that the other book I'm holding belongs on a shelf three feet above my farthest extended arm's reach. Wonderful. I grab a ladder nearby and slide it to my spot, grumbling. I make sure it's locked in place before I venture up it.

On a ladder isn't really the best place to do heavy thinking, but who gives a damn about safety anymore? With Falcone flooding Gotham's streets with drugs and criminals, there really is no safety anywhere, at all.

I sway back and forth a few times but take no notice of it. To Jonathan, now that I've realized he's late coming back from Georgia (it's been over a month; they left on June 14th), I've lost track of current dates. I only know that it's in the middle of the week (Thursday, I think). That cloud of worry is pooling around my head, planning on getting much larger as time goes on here.

_What if something happened to him?_ I guess I should be saying "them" instead of "him", but who gives a damn about whether Geraldine Crane is in good health or not? _Please let him be all right…_

I have to urge to bite my nails down to the quick. Out of nerves.

_Stay positive! Don't you think he'll like your welcome-home gift?_ Ah yes. His now loosened security. I'm rather proud of that.

No, wait—

I nearly do a nosedive off the ladder when I realize what I've truly accomplished. I cling on for dear life, one foot swinging free. Flippin' no-grip shoes…

To clarify, what I've accomplished by "vandalizing" Jonathan's house is nothing. What's the point of escaping if running away would cause too many problems? Jonathan said it; not me. He has his reasons, but I don't see them, and I wouldn't understand them if they were given out. And what's the point of running away (if you could) if you don't have anywhere to go?

I think Mom would notice within two days if Jonathan starts living in our house.

Well, of course he can't run away? Where would he go? I slowly make my way back down the ladder. Maybe it's not the greatest plan I've ever had… It needs to be revised.

I slip again. And I'm falling.

"Ames!" I hear voice call out. An older, gentlemanly voice.

My fall is short, luckily, and broken by another body. "Oof!" is all I hear, but I don't dare peek; my eyes are squeezed tightly shut, trying to avoid seeing my life flash before my eyes. My diaphragm caves in and the breath whooshes out of my lungs as I land on my stomach, splayed across someone's very thin back.

_Owww…_ But at least I'm intact. Can't say the same for the person beneath me.

"Ames, how are you today? I would like to get up if you approve." I recognize that elderly voice. Horrifying realization…

I've pancaked on top of my boss.

Hanging my head, I allow five uncomfortable seconds go by for self-humiliation. Poor Mr. Kipling. I'm shocked I didn't snap his long, twiggy body in two.

I don't think he'll fire me, but still…

"I. Am. So. Sorry." Each word comes out separately, half-strangled by my embarrassment. Trying to avoid squishing him further, I do my best to scramble off my boss. I'm sure it looks rather comical.

"It's quite all right, chickadee. I've got a few ribs to spare," Mr. Kipling jokes as he gingerly gets to his feet. The tufts of white hair on his head look more haphazard than usual. And his buggy glasses are crooked.

_Chickadee? Where'd that come from?_ I stifle a giggle, despite the pink flames creeping up my face. "Sorry. I warned you before; I'm a klutz."

"Don't want you getting hurt. Please, be more careful." He brushes dust from the sleeves of his dark green suit.

"Yes, sir." I watch him walk back down the row, shaking his head and smiling. Silently laughing at me. I think it's the flash of his shined shoes that reminds of an earlier thought I'd had.

Now, how about that background check?

Take the cart or leave it?

I'll never find it again in this huge place. Take it.

"Mr. Kipling! Wait up; I have a question!" I bawl as I chase him down. I seem to have forgotten the "quiet in a library" rule that's been around for centuries. Mr. Kipling turns around sharply, and I pull up and stop in time to avoid beaning him with my metal cart.

He looms over me, like a praying mantis. "What, Miss Ames?" He does sound a tad exasperated. Probably because I almost hurt him a second time (does he have a limp now?) and keep bothering him so he can't go do his job.

"Don!" I blurt out as I regulate my pace. We turn a corner, and I get the impression that his name came out of my mouth the wrong, unintended way, because Mr. Kipling turns to me and smiles knowingly, like a teasing father with a twinkle in his eye.

"Ah, I see. Is that all?" He winks.

I get flustered, which only worsens the ideas in his head. That I'm a love-struck girl following Don around with stars in her eyes and a puddle of drool on her bottom lip.

"It is NOT what you are thinking," I state firmly, still flushed. "But can you tell me anything about him? I mean, like his background? Before he started working here?"

"Do you find him to be boyfriend material?" he teases. "Doing a checkup? You've got a little crush! How cute!" He folds his spindly arms over his chest in a knowing manner. It sounds so wrong coming out of his mouth.

_You won't get anywhere otherwise! _My mind argues. _You're an actress; just go with it!_

_I haven't acted in a long time. I lie now,_ I retort back. Fighting with myself again…

_Just do it._

So I cast my eyes down to the colorful carpet under my feet (the blush helps) and bite my lip, fighting a fake smile. "All right. You got me." I reach up a hand to rub the back of my head. "I'd like to know. I mean, he never tells me about his past and we talk all the time and he's so nice and I really, really like him and I don't think he'll ever like me…"

I nearly gag on my own vomit.

And I'm lying to my employer.

To my amazement, he buys it. Mr. Kipling wipes a tear—seriously?—from an eye and sighs. Dear god. "Ah, young love!" he cries joyously.

You've got to be kidding me.

"Yeah," I say bashfully, fluttering my eyelids, trying to make it look like I'm utterly consumed by the mere thought of Don. _Please let me not barf…_

Mr. Kipling walks forward and pats my shoulder sympathetically. "How I would love to be a youngster again."

Now I'm trying not to gag on my own laughter. He's the very picture of…I don't know. The crazy, romantic uncle. The hair and shining eyes add to it.

"Ames, I adore you emotions," Mr. Kipling soothes. "But to tell you the truth, we don't look into backgrounds when hiring. Not very much is known about Don to begin with. I'm sorry."

Damn. There goes that idea.

"It's fine, I guess," I mumble, disappointment real this time. I scuff my shoe on the carpet. Then I peek up at him hopefully. "But do you have any little tidbits of information, please? Just a teeny piece? Anything would help." I'm a whiny child; this is so unlike me. My acting abilities are being pushed to the limits.

"I'm afraid I know very little," Mr. Kipling says reproachfully. "He used to have nothing to his name. Sill doesn't, in the relationship concept. I was befuddled when he applied to work here. Looked like he had a couple of dollars. Still does, but he hides it. He seems to like young ladies, too." The last sentence is an afterthought.

"Hobbies or anything?" My voice is pathetically soft.

Mr. Kipling scratches his chin and grabs a book off the cart in front of me before placing it on a low shelf. Huh. Missed that one. "Not that I know of. He's handy with a gun, though. A dumb burglar broke into the library once. Don disarmed him and got him the leg. The fool dropped like a rock."

The information keeps coming faster. At my prodding, he's remembering.

"A little more?" I beg. "Please, I'm in love…" Yick. Yuck. Blech.

Mr. Kipling heaves a great sigh that seems to rack his entire body. "I don't know how, but he's got friends in high and low places. Knows some dangerous people. Don's a nice fellow, but I've spotted him chit-chatting with a couple of rich scumbags. Gangsters, I think."

My palms begin to sweat. My throat closes up.

"That's all I know, Ames. I'm sorry."

I am shaken. "No, it's great," I croak. "Sorry for taking up your time." He doesn't seem to notice the change in my demeanor. My mouth is dry.

"I suppose I don't mind all that much. You remind me of one of my nieces," Mr. Kipling says kindly. He glances at the fancy watch on his wrist. "Actually, it's time for you to sign off. You're free to go." He strolls away, whistling a tune I identify as a composition of Tchaikovsky's, a large volume of sorts tucked under one long arm.

His thinness reminds me of someone close to home.

And am I off already?

Stunned by the information I've just collected, I push my small cart to the front of the library and spot Don waiting outside the library doors. He's gotten off earlier than me. I narrow my eyes at him. So what is he doing now? Waiting for someone? For me? Or for someone to show up? I pray that it's the latter.

I sign out and return to my spot to observe him suspiciously. Now, I have a reason to be wary of him.

I still can't believe it! Why didn't I put it all together before?

The prying questions about my mother, his fleeting interest in me, handiness with a gun (according to Kipling), dangerous friends in high and low places, how he never seems to let me out of sight, and finally, after I'd been too chicken to take him up on any hints, his sudden interest in and attraction to Naomi. He can't get to me directly, so he'll get to me through her.

The sickening feeling punches me in the gut.

I should've known all along. I am so naïve. So stupid and blind. Too obsessed with myself.

Don works for the Mob. He knows Falcone, and _that's_ where he's getting his instructions from.

Naomi is in danger. I have to save her.

I really want to sink to the floor right there and then. Falcone never left; he's always working through someone else. Why can't I ever remember that? He's bigger, craftier, and smarter than I've given him credit for. And more dangerous.

_Idiot, idiot, IDIOT!_

Through those things about friends and through the goon I'd spotted that night at the movies, he knows Naomi's my distant friend. But he actually probably knew that before everything. He's always there.

Goddamn crime lords, screwing up my life.

Poor Naomi. If anything happens to her, I'll never forgive myself. I _have_ to help her. Having that talk would be a great place to start.

Now that the initial shock of it all has worn off, I'm now just plain scared. At least I can admit it to myself. For one of the first times in my life, I don't know what to do.

_I should've known… I should've known…_ No hope for the future. That's how I'm feeling right now. All I'm asking for is simply one joyous event to occur in my life. Please. Just. Once. My days have been filled with worry, sadness, irritability, and lord knows what else. I need a pick-me-up.

But no one ever said life was fair.

Who cares? I like it that way.

Falcone is a giant. A giant spider, and I'm caught up in his fate-filled web with no way out. No matter what, someone will get hurt. He'll make sure of that. To get at me.

And speak of the devil… My eyes widen in surprise as a familiar figure approaches Don.

…_seeing her soon…_ I remember. _He told me._

Naomi's here for their date. Naomi. Better now than never.

Gulping dramatically, I try to restrain myself. But my feet think on their own and carry me forward.

"Leaving on a date; they're leaving on a date," I babble repeatedly.

I'm at the doors. Out the doors.

"Naomi, wait!" I yell out. She and Don are hand in hand, walking away. At my cry, she turns, already smiling blissfully. Don does, too, though he takes a few more steps first, waiting for her in the middle of the sidewalk. Though he tries to maintain a natural demeanor, a glower briefly slips through.

"Ames, hi! What is it? Good to see you, by the way," Naomi chirps, looking at me with her enormous brown eyes. She's beautiful. Damn her and damn her innocence.

I feel slightly guilty about this. "Can I talk to you about something? Quickly?" My lower-toned voice contrasts harshly with her girlish trill.

"Okay. Sure." She casts an apologetic look back at Don before following me as I go to stand ten feet off to the side. I scowl to myself and blow air through pursed lips.

Crap. I'd rather face a swarm of rabid birds right now. This will hurt her more than me, though, because I've never been good at giving the straight truth.

"So, what do you wanna talk about?" she asks.

I stand there, arms folded over my chest, shoulders hunched. Showing my discomfort. I don't have the heart. I look at her lovely, beaming, curious face, open my mouth, close it, lick my lips. Clear my throat, open mouth again.

Close it.

Courage lost. I despise myself.

Naomi glances back anxiously over her shoulder at Don. He throws his hands into the air. Apparently, I'm wasting time. Naomi bites her full bottom lip as she turns back to me. "Ames, please," she begs. "We're going to be late."

_For what?_ I think sourly, aggravated at myself. Fine.

I keep my voice quiet. "Naomi, don't go on that date. Um, go out with me instead. We can go see a movie…" I'm going further than I thought I could.

"Ames, I can't. Don's made dinner reservations. I'm sorry." She fixes me with a soft look. "I would hate to make him angry."

I pale.

"Thanks for asking though. It's really nice of you."

I shake my head. "You don't get it. You don't understand what I'm trying to say. Give him up."

"Why?" She's not angry, merely curious. Another over-the-shoulder glance. Another impatient look from Don.

I clench my fists and stand stiffly. "He's not who you think he is. He's dangerous."

To my surprise, instead of collapsing in fear, Naomi laughs. "Oh, Ames. Is that all? C'mon, I'll admit he's a little rough around the edges, but Don couldn't hurt a fly!" She grins.

It doesn't spread to me. "Then why don't you want to make him angry?"

She stares down at her feet and two magenta circles appear on her dark cheeks. Now she's mad. Or disappointed in me.

"I don't understand you. Why are you saying these things?"

"Because you're my friend. Give him up, Naomi."

"Ames, you know I can't." She gazes straight into my eyes. "I love him."

Ohshit. No going back.

There's nothing I can do for her. "No, you don't," I say. It's ridiculous.

"Don't you dare tell me how I feel." Naomi throws me a cold shoulder as she gives me her back and walks to Don's side. "I'm sorry we had this conversation," she whispers over her shoulder. I've hurt her. I'm left in the dust, and I watch as Don slings an arm around her thin waist and tucks his hand into the back pocket of her jean skirt. They do look…cute…together. Don doesn't look back at me, either.

I've lost her. And I watch as they shrink into the distance, crossing a street, turning a corner. I hope they've got a car then.

If I'm right about Don, this won't be my fault. First Jonathan, now Naomi… Who am I going to lose next, as a result of my past and of Falcone?

I groan loudly and hang my head. A passing biker catcalls at me. He is ignored.

_Silly, stupid high school girls… _I take my hand and rub it over my mouth and chin, thinking hard. To scab on my face chooses that precise moment to fall off. I stare at it as it plummets to the ground. Damn. That wasn't done healing yet!

Grumbling to myself, I walk to the employee parking lot of the library and climb into Black Jack. Oh, the freaking Narrows. I really need to figure out what route my mother uses. There are so many of them, but I seem to like to take the easiest one. And I've never been good with complicated directions. I can't read maps either. I have GOT to learn.

When I get home, I don't know what to do with myself. My thoughts keep darting back to Naomi and my failure to reason with her. _It's not like I can take out Don…_

Writing. That's got to work.

I sit at the desk in my room and write like a maniac. But it's now to whom or even about whom I was expecting. Not to mention the fact that I seem to have broken my customary three line-rule.

_Jonathan,  
><em>_You'll find some alterations to your "security."  
><em>_If times are tough, please visit.  
><em>_Wishing for your return,  
><em>_Ames_

I didn't even sign off in my usual style. Well, at least this specifies my "escape plan" further. I set my pencil down and fold up the paper. I'm leaving him a note. And by doing so, I'm keeping the hope that he is unharmed and will come back soon.

What I've actually told him doesn't hit me until I've stood up from my desk. I blush.

I've just given him permission to come over to my room whenever he likes. He'll think I'm offering a free-for-all. Poor guy. Good thing he'll realize this and never take it.

Ugh. How dumb, crude, and needy am I? When did I reach this point?

I cast a look at my alarm clock. Geez, it's late. Dark outside, too. Nice weather though. I go downstairs, out my front door, and begin the long journey up to the set of mailboxes.

No birds ravage me. That's a plus.

And here it is. The Cranes' mailbox. Closing my eyes, I briefly skim my fingers over the scratchy, fading letters of the address on the side of it. Oh, my friend. Where are you?

I feel strangely daring mailing this thing. It's a bold note. Whatever. I open up the box and throw the note on top of the stack of letters that are the result of weeks and weeks of absence. Wow. A lot of college stuff in there. I make one last adjustment; I tuck the note in the middle of the stack, so he will find it while going _through_ the mail.

A nice surprise for him. I close the lid of the box, turn my head, and gaze mournfully at the Cranes' house in the night.

My heart stops beating.

The house lights are on.

He's back.

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><p><strong>AN: Hmmm. Definitely not my best chapter. Not much to say here, but I needed something to tide us over to Jonathan's return. Sorry for the cliffie ;)**

**I'm going address an issue that's been bothering about _The Dark Knight Rises._ True, Anne Hathaway has been cast as "Selina Kyle", but it has NOT been stated that she will be "Catwoman." She hasn't been referred to as "Catwoman" yet. By anyone, other than fans. I believe I did say that at one point, before I wised up and started listening. Just clearing some things up.**

**Unrelated topic, I a license plate that says "HIDDLES" or "LOKIRLZ" or something…**

**Question of the Day: Would you rather have a robot apocalypse or a zombie apocalypse?**

**Please leave a review. I really wanna know what you guys think. Even if it's just telling me your favorite part.**

**SEE Y'ALL NEXT TIME!**


	23. Safe and Sound

**A/N: Well, I couldn't keep Jon away for long :D**

**Just a warning to you all: the older version of ****Ames**** will not be as funny. She loses her humor a bit. Still sarcastic, but less...silly.**

**And I know this is a few days late, but another busy week. School is over for us seniors, the play is over *sniff* (the last one was so hard) and everything is back in order now. Hopefully, I can get back on track. This would've been up yesterday, but a friend called me up last minute to go see the _Avengers_ with her (my second time). So it didn't happen. Sorry for the wait.**

**And yes. There are darker things to come.**

**As for the end of the world here...I pick zombies. It's what I've prepared and planned for, and a robot can just...incinerate me with a laser. No fun at all. A zombie takeover, on the other hand...DIBS ON THE BASEBALL BAT!**

**Thanks to **Wafia Primo, Arlena4815162342, MadTeaLady, AylaAbbs, SladeRavenFan, Phantom of the Common Room, thexdarkestxnightsx, Starrycat05, linnie kinda spinnie, Raven Lenore Robins, Decepticon-silverstreak, tribute14, corbsxx, Comidia Del Arte, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, Silver Katsuyami, XxKeeperOfDeathxX, Thunderscourge, Zetsubel, BANEHiwatari, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, Knightrunner, pourquoibella, Fruityloops87, Hawthorn Tree, England101, TheVengefulMermaid, iStalkYou, Silential, Nox999, Eva Sirico, GunBunny, Anonymous, alissa lowery, **and **synethesiac **for the reviews! You guys knocked me on my butt this time! Thanks to all for the faves/alerts! After all, I write for you, but mostly for myself.**

**"The Pretender" by the Foo Fighters. LOOK IT UP! FAVE SONG AT MOMENT!**

**Disclaimer: I…own…none… If I do anything wrong, feel free to sic Loki on me ;) I owe some credit to **SladeRavenFan **for the discussion that happens between ****Ames**** and her mother. Great plot point!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Three: Safe and Sound<strong>

_Just close your eyes;_

_The sun is going down._

_You'll be all right;_

_No one can hurt you now._

_Come morning light,_

_You and I'll be safe and sound._

_**~Taylor Swift feat. the Civil Wars – Safe and Sound**_

* * *

><p>I freak.<p>

My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and all I can do is stare at the lightly lit house. _He's back! Jonathan's back!_

But I remain frozen. What can I do? Despite my overwhelming happiness, I'm seeping with bitter disappointment. Helluva time to come back home, about a week late and at night of all times. I'm quivering with joyful, anxious energy.

I WANT TO SEE HIM NOW!

…

But I can't. I sag gloomily, staring at the house. Yes, it's late. And I haven't exactly scheduled a meeting of sorts. He obviously hasn't gotten the mail yet, so as a result, he hasn't gotten my note and doesn't know I'm frustrated. Crane doesn't even know that I know he's back.

Hey! Who's saying _he's_ back? What if it's just Geraldine? Maybe he didn't make it…

_Dummy. He's got a watch to return!_

I haven't gotten a sign to show that he's safe and sound. My excitement slowly dies and is replaced by the sensations of let-down and fear.

I won't even consider it. But until I see Jonathan with my own two eyes and deduce that he's real…I'll worry.

I ponder into the night, "All right, Ames, think it through. You need to leave him a sign soon, but not now. He needs to know that you know. But not tonight." I'm torn.

I want to tear my hair out and slam my newly-scarred face into the ground repeatedly.

"One day. Wait one more day. What sign? Think about it." Talking to myself helps. Pacing rapidly, twitching.

But knowing I have to wait some more…causes my heart to ache. I'm stuck between jumping up and down like a squealing girl and lowering myself to the ground to lie there like a depressed corpse.

I choose neither. Instead, I hug myself and walk back down the road to my house with my eyes glued to the Cranes' shadowed and lit residence. My pulse picks up speed as I imagine our first meeting, after a month of separation. Most likely, I'll be gushy; he'll be cold. It's expected. I relish it.

I've missed his blue, disapproving eyes, his glasses, his calculating ways. That hard demeanor that I've managed to slowly chip away at. Only me.

My subconscious whines, _What if he didn't make it?_

Oh, the seeds of doubt! I can't shake it. So as I make my way back, I keep my eyes fixed on the house, hoping and praying for…for…for something…

And for once, they are answered. At the right time, I'm drawn to focus my sight on a certain side of the house. The upper floor on that side. Barely visible, a dim light flickers on, streaming through the now-weak bars on the window… His room. The flick of that switch reverberates through my chest. Somehow, I'd heard it. My body thrums with it.

Jonathan made it.

Okay.

* * *

><p>The next day (the wait is terrible!), Mom can't seem to figure out why I'm so happy. I found out early that it's a Friday, so I don't have to go into work (it would've ruined the reunion I'll have with Crane), so by losing track of the days of the week, I'd gotten lucky on that account.<p>

I'm planning on seeing Jonathan sometime in the afternoon today, so I keep a big grin plastered on my face for the majority of my time with Mom. She's confused when I also help her out around the house (no appointments for her today), but it lightens her mood toward me and my mood toward her. A little bit. I'm a butt-kisser.

The only thing that puts a damper on the day is that I don't know how to signal Jonathan (I can't go walking into his front yard!) and…Naomi. That girl around boys…sigh. I'm very concerned about her but what can I do? She's not willing to listen. I'd offered my help and everything.

Hmm. Mom and I are on relatively good terms today. I'm not mad at her (now) and she's not annoyed with me. I need to tell someone about Naomi's situation; I shouldn't have to wait to blurt it all out for Jonathan.

Since it's involving Falcone…should I tell her? Should I tell Mom? I don't trust her as far as I can throw her, because of those lies, but should I let go? So silly to hold a grudge. But the thing is, I don't _want _to let go.

I don't want to. I need something or someone to be mad at. What the hell is wrong with me?

It's Falcone. She'd want to know.

We are both in the kitchen now, minding our own business. Or at least she is. I'm hunting through a cabinet for dry cereal to munch on out of nervousness and boredom. Mom's leaning against the kitchen counter, reading the latest issue of _The Gotham Times,_ occasionally clucking her tongue and furrowing her dainty brow.

I need to make up my mind. The fact that it's about a hundred degrees outside (damn you, July) bogs me down even more. Remember what I'd said about Mom not wanting to waste money on air conditioning. The windows are open, but they aren't enough. The breeze is hot, I'm sweating, and it's sweltering in this fricking house.

That irks me.

While deciding whether to open my huge mouth or not, I must've been staring at Mom a bit _too_ intently (I do that) because her head snaps up, and she looks me straight in the eye. "Yes, Ames? Do you need something?"

Aw, to hell with it.

I gulp. "Um, yeah. I know we're not on the best of terms right now, but you're my mom. And I need to talk to you about something serious." Setting up a good foundation. I'm shocked at how easily these words come out of my mouth.

Mom folds the paper neatly and sets it down on the counter. Her dark green eyes are hurt, wary. Her strawberry-blonde hair falls in soft waves to her shoulders. Though casually dressed, she's lovely. My mother is beautiful.

And again the thought comes: am I really her daughter?

I barely remember what Dad looked like. I'm sure we don't have pictures.

"Oh, so I'm needed now? You really want to talk to me? I still don't believe that was my fault." Of course not. Sarcasm doesn't suit her.

I almost stomp my foot on the floor. "Yeah, I'm sorry for being born. Whatever. It's not like you need to apologize or anything." Not going as planned. She opens her mouth to protest, but I rudely interrupt. "Now, I'm only going to say this once. It's about Falcone."

"Has he hurt you?" The question comes fast, to show that's all she's worried about.

_Not yet,_ I respond silently. "No. But he's after someone else."

"Ames! Then that's none of our concern." Just like Jonathan… "If I know Falcone, and I do," I fight back a gag in the middle of her sentence, "then it's best that no one interferes when a plan of his is set in motion. You can see how well that worked out for us."

I clench my fists. She's dismissing Dad now. "You're not listening to me. What if I told you that he's trying to get at me through someone else? Remember that Naomi girl I went out with that one time?"

Mom raises her eyes skyward. "Yes. Beautiful young lady. Nice. Responsible. The type of person you should hang out with more."

I have my mother's temper. My next sentence comes out through gritted teeth. "And you know Don? He was the lead guitarist at the spring concert, worked with me, and suggested my new job."

"Nice young man. What about him?"

Ha.

Here goes nothing. It all comes out in one rushed breath. "Falcone's using him to get to me through Naomi. He works for Falcone and Naomi's in trouble."

There. I sound like a raving nut.

As I dread, from the start of when I first got this idea, Mom begins laughing. Hard. True, it's a sound I haven't heard in a long while, but this is not the time for it. Thoroughly pissed off and with a burning face, I cross my arms and snap, "It's not funny."

Regaining her composure, Mom grins sardonically. "It's absurd, is what it is. You really _can_ make someone laugh, daughter." She moves to pick up her newspaper. Commissioner Loeb's face is on the front page again. Ew.

And yep. She doesn't believe me. Can you really blame her?

"You think I would lie to you about _him?_" I'm enraged. Her laughter…her unwillingness to believe me…her mockery… Never go with your first impulse. "This is serious, woman!"

"Ames Irvette Manson," Mom whispers in a deadly voice. "I think you're a little too old to be lying in order to get attention."

No way.

THAT FIGURES!

Mom snatches the newspaper up. "I know Falcone, Ames. It's silly. He doesn't operate that way. Through other people to get to someone, I mean. He likes to finish the job himself. 'The Roman' wouldn't change his ways. Or his methods." Mom never shares details of her old life.

_But that's not the point,_ I think furiously. _As far as I know, Falcone isn't trying to finish me off. He just wants to get to me. Please, even Carmine Falcone can change. Makes him harder to read._

How do you explain something like that to her? Mom was involved with Falcone once, and she knew him better than anyone. She's definitely not able to edit her beliefs about him and I'm a child…and I'm looking for attention and think that lying to her will get me attention… Yeah. I'm so deprived of it.

The thing is…

I've failed again.

Madder than hell and close to a breakdown, I throw a glare at the old clock on the kitchen wall as Mom recedes behind her newspaper.

You know what? If I don't tell someone else, I'll explode. Into a million gazillion messy pieces. Which Mom'll have to clean up. Which will make _her_ madder than hell.

Yes, I know that won't happen, but it feels like a hazard nonetheless.

Jonathan. I need Jonathan. Now. He always listens.

I say it's close enough to the afternoon. I can't be in this house for one more minute. Sure, with this meeting thing, I've got a couple of roadblocks to get through (signaling him, how I'll react to seeing him for the first time in more than a month), but I can figure those out on the way, and it'll be easier to do once I get out of here.

_Okay. Let's do it._

I turn nasty. "Fine!" I bark at a distracted Mom. "Don't believe me! If she ends up getting hurt, I'll never forgive you! It will all be on you. I'm done with you, and I'm out of here." I walk to the front door and jerk my sneakers on, one by one. It's so hot…am I pitting out in this gray tank top? I hope not, because you can see it easily.

Yes, Jonathan's back, and the mother-daughter relationship's getting worse.

During my rampage, Mom doesn't look at me once. She might not have even heard me. I'm sure she's dealt with clients who are a lot louder, ruder, and brattier than her own teenage daughter. Me, she's used to. All my temper tantrums have made her a pro when it comes to arguments.

I end my stream of spewing anger and self-loathing with, "See you in a few hours."

I need to make this as long as I can.

Mom says nothing again, so I violently yank open the front door and march outside like badly coordinated army general. Graceful, Ames. Bravo. Really left it stinging, didn't I? I've got a penchant for getting nothing accomplished in life.

But lord, what a hot July day! I love heat, but it's so stuffy and heavy now. Barely-there breeze. Just on the edge of becoming unbearable. I stalk down our front porch, fuming. At least I'd had sense enough to scrape my hair back into a ponytail today.

Boy. Haven't even been outside for two minutes and I'm already feeling the sweat begin to bead on my upper lip. I wipe it away in disgust. Gross. I hate pores.

I still don't have a plan, but my restless, angry feet somehow find their way on over to the Cranes' yard. _What am I doing?_ I think nervously. _I don't know what I'm going to do…_

Darn you, Mother.

I want to see him _so _badly, it's making me sick. Start off simple. Fine.

I walk around the side of the house knowing that Jonathan's room is located high and toward the back of the crumbling house. Believe me, I don't like creeping around their yard. The faded barn is a ways away, but still feels way too close for comfort.

And Jonathan being back means Geraldine is back, too. Joy. Oh god, I'm half-expecting her to come barreling out of the house at any second…

I'm very, very jumpy.

You can tell fall is coming. The briefly green grass under my feet is drying out. And this place hasn't been mowed all summer.

Like a stalker, a common criminal, I find myself standing under Jonathan's bedroom window. Bars are still there, and the window behind them is too dark for me to be able to see anything. And I know I'm at the right area, because that rickety metal ladder is still reclining precariously against the house.

Good.

My hands shake.

Okay, so now what? I'm here. I better figure something out soon, or anyone driving by will wonder what a teenage girl is doing standing stock-still in someone else's yard. Yeek, I'll be discovered!

My mind goes blank. Great. Just what I need.

Sweat drips off my forehead this time. Why do I think that I'm under so much pressure?

To hell with it. _How to signal? How to signal? How to…_

My eyes fall on a cluster of small rocks resting peacefully in the browning grass.

_Hmm…_will it work? Where is my mind even going?

Just how good is my arm? Eh?

"Let's find out," I boldly declare. My breathing suddenly gets heavier as I stoop to pick up a stone. Gosh, this is a disaster waiting to happen, isn't it?

To get comfortable, I toss the thing up and down in my hand a few times, lean back, and squint up at the dark window. Readying myself for failure once again.

The first stone dinks pathetically against the side of the house. No way. I scowl. The second goes up. I miss his window by inches this time. Better, but not good enough.

_Isn't this scenario supposed to be reversed?_ I pout bitterly. _The guy's the one who chucks rocks at the girl's window…_

Hmph. Never claimed to be all that feminine anyway.

The next time I throw, the third stone clinks around the bars before pelting to the ground. Getting frustrated, I allow a small victory to pass. I'm on, now. But damn. That one was too quiet. Not even a bat could've picked that noise up.

Aargh! More force.

The fourth and final and larger rock flies straight through the bars and clatters against the window so loudly, that even I jump.

They definitely heard that.

A small sound, similar to clanking metal, is all it takes for me to squeak and go darting off into the nearest available place to hide.

The cornfield.

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit._ I'm getting used to the running-away-at-a-dead-sprint thing. Sometimes, I can't and don't believe half the stuff I do. Have I been seen? Will I die soon?

And it's a wonder where my subconscious takes me when I'm not paying attention. Somehow, I'm led to the clearing, even while blindly running through harvested stalks. Freaking combines…

The scarecrow is still smack dab in the middle of it. Untouched. Unchanged. Though I must say, it looks a lot happier during the daylight hours.

It's an old, familiar sight now.

Whew. I think I've gotten off pretty easily for tossing small boulders at the window of an unsuspecting friend.

All the stalks surrounding the clearing have been left up, forming a circle with everything around it cut down. It's a protected area.

I stare up at the scarecrow.

What can possibly be so captivating about it?

The snap of a dry cornstalk makes me whip around.

And I find myself face to face with the person I've been without for longer than I deemed necessary.

_He's really back._ I—I can't even move, looking at him. I'm seeing him with my own two eyes and find myself unable to accept the fact that Jonathan is here, standing a mere twenty feet away. The rocks worked.

I start to shake. _My friend…_

Jonathan's facial expression is unreadable as, to my shock, he approaches me and stops. Now, we are both under the scarecrow, separated by a pathetically short distance. My mind doesn't even register his appearance or take in any details.

Instead, it causes me to take one step forward, then two. Tentatively. Crane remains expressionless.

My brain circuits fry, cut out. That _must_ have happened, because I soon find myself running forward to close the distance between us. I don't consider his discomfort or what could follow, as I flatten Jonathan with a hug.

"What took you so long? Damn you!" My hulking frame crushes his familiar thin one. "I was worried!" Jonathan is unresponsive. Frozen.

What the hell am I doing? Oh well.

"Ames…" There. He can't escape. I won't lose him. At least he said something.

And yes, I'm sweaty.

I look up to the sky, relief seeping through my every pore, breath coming in soft gasps. I've needed him, and I don't care that now I'm not being hugged back or that he's never been hugged before or even touched another human being before me. This much. I furrow my brow, reveling in this feeling, and open and close my eyes.

_He's…not as short, _I realize as I awkwardly crush him. When will I let him go? Still not being hugged back. I'm alive; he's alive. How is he feeling about this? I've never done it to him before.

Crap. I should probably let go now.

Flames creep up my cheeks as I release my vice-grip on his small body. The nerve I've got. I step away, about three feet, and look him over in an obvious fashion.

I'm right. He _has _grown. I'm now only four or three inches taller than him, instead of a half-foot. For once, I've broken his cool composure; he appears stiff and taken aback by my forwardness. Not much has changed about him, but he still appears different in a way. Well, the defeated look I'd last seen him with has vanished from his appearance.

_Small changes, really,_ I notice as I scrutinize. Same electrifying blue eyes that no one else seems to notice, but he's gotten a_ new_ pair of glasses, the same old round ones. His hair hasn't been cut all summer, so it's even longer than it was. He could pull it back into a small ponytail easily. Yick. The Georgia air or sun or whatever must've been good for him, because his skin has almost cleared up. Not perfectly, but nearly all signs of puberty are gone.

He's dressed the same, in khakis and a collared shirt, despite the pressing heat, and is as skinny and feminine-looking as ever. But he's healthier and (if I dare say it) a little broader in the shoulders. Some of his angles have hardened.

Jonathan's still a boy, but older now. Same old Crane, with some mature improvements. There's a confidence there; he has the appearance of a senior boy in high school.

I'm relieved that he hasn't changed drastically.

But now, the full embarrassment of my assault hits me, and I flush harder, covering my face with my hands. "I am so sorry…" I'm prone to overreacting.

Jonathan doesn't miss a beat. "Is there anything else I can do to help you?"

"No, just let me die." I'm ashamed of myself and of my lack of self-control and explosive enthusiasm.

I can't see anything past my fingers, but I'm glad he's in one piece.

A cool hand encircles my wrist, brings on of my palms up and away from my face. It's Jonathan, and soon, a heated weight is pressed into my hand. I close my fingers over it, take my other hand away from my eyes, and open them to look down on what Jonathan has just given me.

Here, underneath the scarecrow. I'm still sweating. So gross…I feel self-conscious in my gray tank top.

It's my father's watch.

Jonathan steps away. "I'm back," he says. "A promise fulfilled." Does he sound…a tad bit…caring? Grateful?

I marvel at the pretty piece of men's jewelry sitting in my palm. My father's. Not only has Jonathan returned it to me, he's also taken care of it. Tears leak out the corners of my eyes.

"Thank you so much," I say thickly.

Great. Now I'm crying. When this happens, tears smear across my small eyes, my nose either plugs up or starts running, and as a result, my already-low voice drops another octave.

God, I've missed him so much! It's like he was never gone, because the awkwardness level is not as high as I'd though it would be. I smile through my sniffling as I realize that before now, Jonathan would've never approached me as he just did to give Dad's watch back. We've both changed.

I slip said watch onto my wrist.

"Ames, you haven't changed in the slightest," Jonathan tells me, smirking with that all-too-familiar iciness. Glad to hear it.

I shrug. What can I say? "You have." I frown again. "God, Jon…" a muscle in his jaw twitches, so I correct myself, "…Jonathan." I blush again. Dumb thoughts getting in the way. I've annoyed him. But I continue, "You're late coming back. I thought something had happened to you…" He's right; I haven't changed at all. Still the same, silly girl.

Jonathan's already exasperated, and I want to hug him again for putting up with me. He is so mature, so practical… "Ames, you're bein' ridiculous."

_Whoa._

I look at him curiously. There's no doubt that he's fighting it, but I can swear I hear a faint Southern twang trying to color his otherwise smooth, unchanged voice. It's barely detectable, but I'd caught his little slip up. The effect of spending summer in the South.

And Crane knows I catch it, because a frustrated look appears on his face before vanishing. The sun reflects off his glasses and beads of sweat gather on his forehead.

Vocally, in words, I don't needle him about it. But a wide grin splits my face in half and the giggles escape, one after the other. I don't mean to…but I can't help it! It sounded so funny!

I'm unintentionally mocking him. Crane knows it, the man-boy he's become.

The joyful noises die from my lips as I see Jonathan reach into the pocket of his ragged khaki pants and pull out a white slip of notebook paper. My note. I stare. He holds it up. "What's the meaning of this?"

I flush all over again and duck my head. Yup. He got it. Probably this morning. I remember the forwardness of the note and am ashamed. Most frustratingly of all, I can't pick up on his reaction here.

A plague on his emotionlessness. But I'm getting a faint vibe of disapproval.

So I scuff my foot against parched dirt beneath me and shrug again. "I want to help you," I admit. "I know I should stay out of it, like you told me, but I won't. The offer still stands."

"Are you being completely serious with me?" Can't read him.

"Yes, no, maybe so."

"Ames…" His tone is short.

"Fine. Yes, I'm serious." What about your security? Defeated, I plop down onto the hot, hard ground, partially covered by the shade of the scarecrow behind me. Now, _Jonathan_ towers over _me._

He moves to stand next to me, to my surprise. "As for your…alterations," he carefully begins, "they work."

I look up at him hopefully. "No problems?"

Jonathan raises an eyebrow. "None whatsoever." A pause. "Thank you."

I smile and exhale. Finally, gratitude!

But something doesn't seem right here… I make a weird face in concentration, resisting the urges to play with dirt as I do so. _What about his grandmother? Wouldn't she have caught him? _At least the bars and ladder worked…

Shocking me again (as I prepare for my next question), Jonathan carefully lowers himself next to me, so that we're sitting side by side, in the thin shade of the scarecrow.

_Oh, wow… _"How did you get out of your house without your grandmother killing you? Why did it take you so long to get back?"

Something else catches Jonathan's eye. His gaze rakes over my face before settling on the newly-healed and scarred skin under my right nostril. "How did that appear?"

_Answer me, dammit!_ I want to scream. But I answer his question quickly and flippantly. "I did something stupid. Ran into something." I tilt my head and narrow my eyes at the stubborn guy next to me. "Can't you just answer? I think you owe me for what I've done and for being worried sick for almost two months." I'm pouting like a child.

No answer.

Well, let's put it this way. "Jonathan, who drove back from Georgia?"

"I did," he responds.

"Why?" I'm so pushy, but I need to know circumstances.

Crane runs a hand through his too-long chestnut hair. I grimace. We're both sweating now. "If you insist. Somehow, Grandmother broke her hip there, and she had to get medical attention. That's the reason for the extended vacation." Is that all? I blink at him. And get nervous. I've glimpsed a twinkle in his eye that's so un-Jonathan; I've never seen it before. Private glee? What? It terrifies me. Why?

My tailbone starts to hurt.

"Grandmother has taken up residence in a bedroom near the front door. I can easily slip out my window upstairs, thanks to you." Well, if a person could be happy… "Also, she's unable to move in any way."

Oh. Duh. I do take delight in this news. Forgetting Jonathan's presence, I mutter to myself, "She's hurt? Good. Old witch deserves it. Maybe next month she'll be dead as dogshit."

I also hope she's in agonizing pain. The crumbly crone…

Jonathan clears his throat. _Whoops._

"Erm, I mean, how fortunate…" I need to smack myself in the face. "So, can you climb a tree? If needed?" In reference to my room…

"If it ever comes to that, I'll manage." Oh, good. He'll consider it.

"Hm." I tip my head up and scan the sky. No crows. "With the old woman bedridden, you've got a little more freedom?" It comes out as a timid question.

"Perhaps." We're almost at a standstill in the conversation. "What more can I ask for?" There's that glint again.

I have one of those moments where your wise input doesn't really have anything to do with the current conversation. "It's hard to ask for something when you don't know what exactly it is you want."

He makes a noise in his throat before we lapse into still silence, sweating and relaxing. Please, let no birds ruin this moment. I'm so content…

"Has Falcone shown himself to you over the summer? You're too quiet, Ames."

Not anymore.

I wince. Can't believe I'd forgotten to tell him about this. "Yeah. He has. I don't want to weigh you down and bore you with my problems."

Jonathan looks at me sharply. "Good practice." Ah. Is he clenching that angled jaw at me?

"I'm warning you. It sounds crazy and silly and complicated…"

"I'm listening." He purses his full lips. I still can't believe he's sitting in the dirt with me.

Better get comfortable. "I guess Falcone hasn't shown himself to me in person." A confused look. "Um," I clear my throat, "do you remember Don? The guitarist?"

The strangest expression, an ugly scowl, flits across Crane's stone features before being replaced with one of wary concern. What was that about? "Yes. From the concert."

So carefully, _carefully, _I explain the situation with Naomi, Don, Falcone and I. The different relationships between us all, Don using Naomi to indirectly get to me. Falcone using Don; Don working for him. I've gone through it all in my head before now, and it all makes more sense.

Jonathan doesn't seem too confused or surprised by it either. He just thinks I'm crazy.

When I finish, I plead, "Please, believe me. I wouldn't make something like this up!"

"Yes, I'm well-aware."

"Thanks for the advice," I grumble before I drop my forehead onto my knees in despair.

Jonathan sighs.

Voice muffled, I continue, "Geez, Jonathan. I don't know what to do anymore! I warned her and she didn't have anything to do with it. Mom didn't believe me, either."

"Fools," he says softly.

My head snaps up. "You think I'm telling the truth?" I ask, baffled. He nods painfully in response. At least he knows…

I exhale in relief and smile at him. I have so much to be grateful for. "I think I might hug you again."

I swear I hear a gulp of dread, but I do see his sweaty face pale (even more) of all color. "Don't. Once was quite enough."

_All-rightly then… _I roll my eyes and touch the watch on my wrist. "Sorry. But seriously, what can I do about this? Mom doesn't care, the cops won't care, and Naomi's in 'love.' I mean, this is Gotham! A high school student gets killed or hurt every weekend." Luckily, junior year hadn't been that bad for us. "Say something! I hate not hearing your thoughts." I know he's private and all, but yeesh!

Jonathan stands up and brushes himself off in a business-like manner. Despite my frustration, I want to chuckle at him. "Ames, if you want my honest opinion, there's nothing you can do. I say let things take their course."

I gape up at him as he leaves me, strolling through the harvested husks and stalks as though he belongs there. What the—?

Maybe I should take his advice, but I feel uneasy. And I probably shouldn't stay out here that long, lest I want to die of a heat stroke.

What a heck of a reunion. I rise to my feet and clap the dirt from my hands.

* * *

><p>We spend the rest of the summer reconnecting. With my help (he never uses my room offer; with Geraldine in bed he doesn't have to), whenever he isn't "taking care" of her, we both drive (separately) to that grove and read his many books, or we remain in comfortable, companionable silence.<p>

I'm going to cherish the time I have with him.

After his vacation, something about his attitude toward me changes. For the better. Some of the ice melts from his gaze. He's not so judgmental of my quirks. Maybe, _maybe_, sometimes, I think some of his looks turn soft. I don't know if we're quite "friends" in his eyes yet, but we've definitely moved beyond being mere acquaintances.

He finally knows how far I will go for him. What I will do for him. He appreciates it. Same-old Jonathan, with mature changes.

After his grandmother's hip heals, she takes a turn for the worse at times. I'm fortunate enough to never see her that summer. I see (and hear) when she's feeling better, because Jonathan takes the blows. He tells me, I see it on him, and I get mad. Mad at the feeling of not being able to do anything about it.

Another change. Something starts to brew under Jonathan's cool exterior.

But all that time, I remind myself to not get attached. This will not last. Our strange relationship, our talks. One year of high school left, and then he'll vanish, disappear, right after graduation. That will be the soonest he can escape from this place.

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><p><strong>AN: Well, I hope it doesn't seem like summer ended too soon. But I felt the need to get my butt moving. Jonathan WILL be getting more attached to Ames, but I'll do my best to keep him in character. And I'm getting the feeling that ****Ames****' mother, Jane, is becoming more like the original Silk Spectre from Watchmen…**

**Third _Dark Knight Rises_ trailer is up! WATCH NOW! I have no doubts about Hathaway or Hardy.**

**So…_Avengers, _huh? Who went to it? I'D LOVE TO TALK ABOUT It WITH YOU SO MESSAGE ME IF YOU'VE SEEN IT! Shouty capitals…And no, there was no romance with Loki and Black Widow, but the one scene they had together was one of my favorites in the whole thing. If anyone writes me a fic about those two, they shall be rewarded! And my feelings for Loki are complicated. I love him, but hate what he's done…I feel sympathy for him, but laughed whenever his butt got kicked. AARGH! I think he's going to be redeemed though. Any discussion?**

**If you haven't seen the movie, GO SEE IT! Fantastic, I've seen it twice already and hope to go twice more. You might've heard that it broke the record and set a new one for an opening weekend. I feel very proud….**

**So yes, _Annie _is finished. ALL WENT WELL! My worries were for nothing. And I cried after the first performance and again after the fourth and last one. The first one was just because I was relieved that we could actually get through it with an audience. The last one was because, well, it was the last one. For a town of 700 people, we totalled over 800 audience members together in all four performances. I fell in love with all those little girls, especially the one playing Annie. What a sweetheart. Spunky, adorable, funny, and red-headed. I literally became her surrogate mother on set. I'll miss that little girl so much…:( Told her I loved her, too. But still, the time of my life. Not to mention the fact that I'm now having complicated feelings for the actor of Daddy Warbucks. Did I mention that he's a freshman and I'm a senior? IT'S SO WRONG! But no one's ever made me laugh more than he has, and he's cute, and about six-foot-two or something. AMAZING voice. Just leave me alone; I'm an emotional wreck now :/ *BAWLS* Done rambling.**

**On the happier hand, I've got a video for you to look up. It's called "Cubicle War 2006" by BaratsAndBereta. Frickin' hilare…**

**Question of the Day: What is the funkiest, weirdest license plate you've ever seen?**

**Next time, lovelies! REVIEW IF YOU WANNA SEE YOUR NAME IN THE A/N! Good parts? Funny things? I take suggestions, hints, etc.**


	24. Bug on a Windshield

**A/N: Very delayed. No comment. Longest chapter in a while.**

**You'll notice that for this school year, I've decided to pay less attention to the actual classes. Less details.**

**Haven't been getting much sleep lately. As a joke, someone dropped off a pair of peacocks in our neighborhood. And at night, they sound like overgrown cats. It's loud. Woke up and found one on the roof of our house…-_-**

**My weirdest license plates: I saw a picture of one (on Facebook) that said **LOKIROX. **I want one that says **HIDDLES, **or **LOKIRLZ. **Or maybe just **LOKI. **Back to the subject. I've literally seen some that have said, **DABEAST, NOTACAR **(on a truck), **LUV2LAF **(my first thought was the Joker), **LETSGEL, PAYUP, HAWKEYE, **and **MADHATR. **But my all time favorite was one that simply said, **GIBBY. **I don't know; it made me smile.**

**A song for you… "Danger! High Voltage" by Electric Six. It's catchy, funky, and fun. Easy to get stuck in your head.**

**Thanks to **England101, Wafia Primo, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, Raven Lenore Robins, LittleMissAngel, Eva Sirico, Natulcien, Knightrunner, SladeRavenFan, BANEHiwatari, linnie kinda spinnie, Miss Magenta Lestrange, GothicFaery94, pourquoibella, finishyourtea, nXn, Ikari no Ojo, Thunderscourge, OfColorsAndPromises, The Dark side of the Mind a**nd **SilhouetteGypsy **for the reviews! And also this extends to those who added me to faves/alerts! I have put up a slight Loki/Black Widow fic called "Precursor to Disaster", if you wanna check it out. **Linnie...**our talks make me smile.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the _Batman_ characters. I'm not even original enough to come up with my own song lyrics, so therefore I do not own "House of the Rising Sun" or "Another Brick in the Wall (Part Two)", either. Respective rights belong to Animals and Roger Waters.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Four: Bug on a Windshield<strong>

_I look down at where you're standing._

_Flock of sheep all on display._

_With all your lies piled up around you,_

_I can take it all away._

_**~Nine-Inch Nails, Burn**_

* * *

><p><em>A senior… I'm a senior now.<em>

My first thoughts upon walking into Gotham High for the first time in a few months. How bizarre. My high school has remained pathetically unchanged.

_My last year…_ Thank god. I'm a big dog now. _We seniors…we got the power._ I grin idiotically. Not to say that I'll be respected as one, but still…wow. I'm almost out of here. Now if only the rest of me could be as carefree. I bite my lip. First day of school Yuck. I see that the usual cliques are gathered around the usual tables. Surprisingly, the one with the rest of the seniors (including Craig, Summer, and Destiny—they're still here?) doesn't pay any attention to me. No whispers, no rumors. But I'm sure they'll start up soon enough.

Wonderful. Now I'm glum.

Just three minutes after I'd arrived, the source of all the past and future gossip comes in the door behind me. I raise my eyebrows at Jonathan. He nods stiffly in the direction of the office. Wow, acknowledging me in public again. What a large step. I scowl, but know what we need to collect.

Locker information and the class schedules we'd completed toward the end of the summer. I groan. Hoorah for being a senior; boo for starting school.

We make our way to the office. Together. Yes, things have definitely changed.

Crane casts a fairly cynical, sideways glance at me. "You seem occupied. Mentally. Mood-wise."

I snort and jerk open the office door a little more roughly than I probably should have. Rhonda Heston looks up at our entrance and smiles at us. She's unchanged as well, all sparkly gold eyes and warm friendliness. Maybe her hair has grown out of its stylish bob a bit, but that's all.

I can tell that she's surprised to see us together. "Hello, you two. How are you today?"

"Fine," I grouse. Jonathan stays silent.

The young secretary gets down to business. And starts sorting through a thick stack of papers on her desk. "Here for you schedules?"

"Yep." I'm in a mood. As usual. How does everyone put up with me? I cough.

She smiles kindly, understanding. "Okay. I know both your names, but I have to be sure. Can I get them, please?" Her voice is soft, like baby powder. She picks up a pair of expensive glasses from her desk and puts them on. When she'd get those?

"Manson, Ames." I sound so bored. _Still too damn cold in here…_

"Crane, Jonathan." Hah. He sounds like me.

After some rifling, Rhonda pulls out two sheets and hands them to us. "There you go," she says warmly. "Enjoy your day, dears."

_Dears?_ I think crabbily, as we leave. I swear Jonathan chuckles at me. Now I have to infuriate him. Create a balance. He can't be in a good mood when I'm not.

I take one look at the schedule in my hand and moan my displeasure. Screw being a senior; I'm not cut out for this. Why didn't I choose to slack off? _What was I thinking?_

Engrossed in his own schedule, Jonathan asks tiredly, "What? Something the matter?" Still walking…and through the blue double-doors we go. To find our lockers.

Perfect chance to annoy him.

I bring his attention to me by waving my sheet in his face. "_We don't need no education,_" I sing loudly.

"Ames…" There it is. His left eyebrow twitches in irritation as he brushes me off. I'm attracting stares.

Switching to a childlike mode, I snatch his schedule from him and dance away so I can compare his and mine. And now I've really pissed him off.

"Ames, will you stop acting like a child?" he hisses at me before chasing me down and getting it back from my limp hand. "For the love of—"

I cut him off. "Whatever." I'd seen what I'd needed to. We both have the usual five-periods-a-day, five-classes-a-semester scheduling, but that's where the similarities end. "We don't have any classes together," I say gloomily. My outlook on this year (or first semester) just got a heck of a lot darker and more depressing.

I practically hear Jonathan's eye-roll. "Hm. Is that all?" He snorts dismissively. "As if that matters…" Jerk.

Huh. Figures he doesn't give two shits. We are opposites. My first period is chorus, second is calculus, third is anatomy, fourth is plant science, and the fifth is novels. Yeesh. Crap-ton of a workload coming up this year. Maybe I remembered to slack off next semester.

And Jonathan's schedule… I don't even wanna know. In my brief glimpse of the list, I didn't recognize or know _any_ of the ones he's taking.

Freaking geniuses.

We find our lockers amid the swarms of lost students, new and old. At least the positions have remained unchanged. Our lockers are still right across the hall from each other.

At the moment, I'm sure Jonathan's _very_ happy about this. That was sarcasm. I need to stop pushing his buttons, but it's so funny to see his cool composure break and his true feelings come out once in a while. It reminds me that he's still a human being and not a robot.

We are silent. But no one else is.

I absorb my locker combination from my sheet and get the miserable thing open on the first try. So does Jonathan. But this year (hell, I'm a senior!), I decide to do something different. Reaching into the pocket of my new high-waisted jeans (it's cooler out already; fall is just around the corner), I pull out a pen cap. And get to work on jamming my locker; I'm too lazy to remember a combination this year. I do pinch my fingers a few times and curse loudly as a result, but it eventually works. I test it to make sure.

A throat is cleared behind me. Jumping, I spin around to see Jonathan giving me a disapproving look, arms folded over his chest. Those eyes…they scorch. I scowl back at him. "What?" I snap.

He shakes his head. "You shouldn't do that." He points a long, rigid finger at my locker.

I turn, look at it innocently, and turn back. "I don't know what you're talking about, buddy."

Before he can open his mouth to scold me again, the bell rings for first period. _Ding-dong. Ding-dong._ Still annoying. I smile brightly at Crane, as even more students fill the hallways, and say nervously, "See ya at lunch!" before taking off. Slightly bewildered by my change of moods, he stares after me. I can only imagine what he's thinking.

On my way to chorus, I pass Naomi in the hallway. She looks at me; I look at her. She turns her head away, still hurt. I feel kind of guilty about it all, but I'd had her best interests in mind. What can I do? I've done all I can.

I can do what Jonathan had advised. Let things take their course. And so, I push Naomi out of mind.

As far as my first three classes go, not as bad as I thought. Calculus is going to kill me though; we don't have the best teacher in the world. And in anatomy, I'm going to like the class, because I like the teacher and know him somewhat.

One of the other things I'm doing differently (in reference to first period) is I'd decided _not_ to stand out in chorus this year. Ever since I'd quit my job at Wonderland, I've had the urge to, I dunno, smother and swallow my singing ability. Self-doubts and whatnot. So no solos for me this year. No concerts.

Half the day done. Half left.

Luckily for me, by lunch, I'm not hungry. I do notice, however, that seniors are allowed to go first in front of the younger kids in line now, and I mentally swear at myself for my aversion to cafeteria food.

One case of food poisoning was quite enough. I'll chance nothing.

Our table by the front doors is still open. I walk up to it and sit down in my usual spot. The weather hasn't changed all that much from the nice stuff we've had this summer. But I know it won't last when fall officially hits.

Five long minutes go by.

_Where is Jonathan?_ I bite my lip. _Did I make him _too _irritated?_

Oh, wait, here he comes…

I offer my friend a weak smile as, to my delight, he sits across the table from me, lunch tray in hands. A nod of acknowledgment.

Some things never change.

"Not eating?"

I glance up at his tone of voice and wince, shuddering. "Never again." Hopefully, he still remembers our first official meeting. To remind him why.

And just like that, all is repaired. We are learning. And the thought makes my last two classes seem not so bad.

The rest of the new school week happens in much of the same old manner. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. All alike. But then Friday. Friday really isn't all that different. Except for some of the talk going around that scares me. And I've noticed it myself, but barely, because I'd forced myself to put it out of mind.

No one has seen Naomi since Monday.

But I heard whisperings of mono…and figure that yes, that's likely. I'm willing to bet that a few of the girls have talked to her on the phone.

As a result of all the talk, I storm out of school on Friday in a murderous mood, Jonathan's eyes drilling holes into my back. Obviously concerned for the first person who steps on my toes later. He knows me too well.

* * *

><p>"I love fall school scheduling!" I proclaim loudly to the air as I exit the library on Sunday night. It's around eight-thirty, and the temperature is just starting to drop to a slight chill. Oh, fall. With the scheduling at my job, I had to change it to accommodate the school year. Now I work Saturday and Sunday nights and get out at a reasonable time.<p>

Come to think of it as another benefit, the new scheduling has given me a way to avoid Don. He doesn't work weekends at the library. He has his job at Wonderland to keep. For now, I don't have to deal with him. And I'm glad for it.

I take a peek at my darkened-yet-lit surroundings before heading to the lot to get my truck. Ah, I love the night. So peaceful, so quiet. The serenity of solitude.

I stop dead once I get to Black Jack. And frown.

Wait. Don has crossed the line with giving Naomi "mono." Wasn't I going to kick his ass for that? Confront him? I'd sure been planning on it Friday.

At Wonderland, if I can catch him on a stage in front of people, then he can't hurt me… It sounds like a slim chance, but this has to be done.

My reasoning things out is just my way of trying to make them seem less stupid. A way of overcoming the fear of actually doing it. Maybe it's the night, or maybe it's the notion of a friend in need. One of these is making me very, very bold. And brave.

And again, stupid. But I'm unstoppable. Heart overcomes reason.

It's fairly early in the night, but late enough in _Gotham_ for it to not be entirely safe for most people my age to be out and about. Or so I grimly think as I navigate the night-lit streets of the city.

"What am I doing?" I mutter to myself as I eventually get to the right street. On the fault of the city, between high-class and poor. Or worse. And, judging by all the cars parked at the closed businesses up and down said street, Wonderland has a full house. Packed.

But for a reason I can't determine. Not for Sarah Garland. Unless she's changed her own schedule, she doesn't perform on Sunday nights. So, for what else? Maybe all the businessmen in the city decided to skip going home and stop by for a drink or two tonight.

Another reason springs to mind: Don's band.

It's possible, since my absence, that perhaps they've had a certain rise in success and popularity (thanks to Falcone?) that I haven't been aware of. There is a chance that Don's group is showing something new tonight.

"Only one way to find out." After a little searching I manage to come across an empty parking space at the very end of the street. Locking Black Jack up securely, I allow myself to be a little miffed at the fact that I actually have to _walk_ quite the distance to get to the place.

_And I've got school tomorrow,_ I think mournfully. _Hopefully, I can figure this out so all goes quickly._

Fat chance.

I stop before the dark doors of Wonderland. And debate. Do I really want to go in? To take a risk? My curiosity pushes me forward, and I swing the doors open, accompanied by the cheery tinkling of bells, and enter into the smoldering crimson and molten gold atmosphere.

_Holy shit,_ is my first thought. Crowded is an understatement. And all I can see of the gigantic stage is Don and his boys (taking a break, no doubt) milling about, switching instruments and speaking to each other. I spot Don easily by his glinting blonde hair. _You're dead. _No one takes much notice of me.

_Dressed nice though. With that ascot thing he's got going on…_

I clear my head and prepare to march past the crowded bar and through the noisy teeming tables up to the stage. But I'm distracted by the décor.

_Holy crap,_ is my second thought. Apparently, Mr. Sorvino has taken the Wonderland theme to the next level. The white rabbit pictures are still draped across the smooth walls; the low-hanging lights, preparing to bash in the skulls of unsuspecting customers, haven't been touched. But everything else…just has a zany twist.

Oddly patterned tablecloths, table ornaments in the shape of top hats with two playing cards lodged in the band. Teacups _everywhere._ Some of the detailing added to the stage, lights, bar, tables, and chairs makes my head spin. I force my body to not follow the circular motion.

It's getting warm in here…

It's almost amazing how quickly things can go so wrong…and so unexpectedly.

I walk forward a bit too much, steadying myself. And forget my surroundings. My head connects with one of the low-hanging lights above an occupied table with a bone-jarring _clang!_ My groan and curse seem just as loud to me. And my flailing arms attract much unwanted attention.

The entire place quiets. Clinking of glasses ceases. Conversations stop as I'm observed with amused, older eyes. Snickers. Chuckles. A few whispers, and then silence. The smells of heady smoke and perfume suddenly get a lot stronger.

Distracted by the already-forming goose egg on my forehead, I am, of course, oblivious to all of this. But eventually, face on fire, I get that something is off. It presses on me.

What is all this…?

And that's when it hits me.

I've announced my presence to all.

Wincing, I raise dreading eyes to the stage. Don is grinning at me. He steps up to the microphone. Oh no. Points me out.

"Ladies and gents, Ames Manson is in the house!" he announces excitedly but coolly. Muttering breaks out. I smile nervously at the masses of blank, grinning, or puzzled faces.

"Before she withdrew, Ames was one of our top performers here. A regular star," Don boasts.

_My ass, _I think darkly. Where was Mr. Sorvino when you needed him?

"It's so nice of her to drop by and check on us," Don continues slickly. He pauses, eyes full of mischief. Smirking at me. Putting me on the spot. My heart thrums in my chest. My hands are shaking. "She's an old pro. I'm sure she wouldn't mind coming up here and singing a little something for us. How 'bout it?" he asks.

Some very enthusiastic applause answers back.

_Oh no…_ I'd planned on taking him by surprise; not on him taking _me_ by surprise. I'd wanted to confront him on the stage and in front of people, yes. But not like this. I hesitate, blood boiling, looking down at my feet and shaking my head insistently. _No, no, no._

_Learn to work with what you've got._

Don motions to the crowd. "Oh, c'mon, Ames! Don't be shy. Don't leave us wanting; it's the least you can do, babe. Folks, tell her that you want her."

Roused by Don's petty speech, thunderous cheers this time around.

I want to groan my displeasure and ask why the world is bothering me.

To me, everything's a conspiracy theory. Maybe I can use this to my advantage…? Don is doing this on purpose. _Where's Zora?_

Being under tons of pressure does strange things to a person's intellect and personality. I make myself take on a confident, unbothered aura. One step forward. Two.

The whoops pick up. They love their entertainment. I seem to develop tunnel vision toward the stage; I can't see anyone else but the band, who are already expectantly picking up instruments of choice after Don turns and whispers to them. They know the song choice, but I have no knowledge on which tune my vocal chords will be pumping out.

_Christ, can I really so this? It's been so long…_ Mob men in the audience? Friends of Don's?

I'm going to sing again. Thank the heavens I had to work tonight; at least I look presentable. Dark jeans, blue V-neck t-shirt. My leather boots. No makeup and hair, for once, unbound. Not a goddess, but hopefully, I look old enough, like a senior in high school. Like the official adult that I'll be in three months. Hopefully, I look like a woman.

I stride quickly through the tables, head down. Finally, I mount the stairs. And am on the stage. My back to the crowd, face hidden, I give Don a murderous stare, crooked smile gone. I whisper to him, "I'll see you after." Right here, right now, in front of the crowd, is not right for what I'm really going to say to him. What was I thinking? Safety? Nowhere is safe.

Don nods at me in peaceful agreement before picking up his guitar. I give him my back as I breathe deeply and step up to the microphone. _Hello, my old friend._ But then, he grabs a chair from behind and sits on it. Just off to my side. So he can watch me and I can watch him out of the corner of my eye. Grrr…

At the same time, I feel like screaming.

I briefly wonder how the hell things like this happen to me.

Silence falls over the mob-like crowd as Don raises his eyebrows at me and begins picking out a jaunty, familiar tune, going up and down the different scales. The keyboard blasts at the end of one of the measures, with its synthesized sound, signaling my entrance.

I can't believe it.

Ignoring the audience, I shoot Don a dirtier look than before, and then I lean into the mike. Of course he would choose this one. It's the first song I ever performed here.

"_There is a house in New Orleans,"_ I begin lowly, before throwing my head back. _"They call the Rising Sun."_ I belt it, and it rings out. Old. Familiar. _"And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy. And god, I know I'm one."_

Who cares if I'm not a boy?

I start to sway to the music, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed. _"My mother was a tailor; she sewed my new blue jeans. My father was a gambling man. Down in New Orleans."_

The next lines ring true with me, because they seem to speak of a father. Who seems to be missing because of his problems. _"Now the only thing a gambler needs is a suitcase and trunk."_ I open my eyes and sing to the men nursing pints at the front tables. _"And the only time he's satisfied is when he's on a drunk."_ I wink.

They laugh at me. Yes, there _are_ Mob members in the audience tonight. But no Falcone.

I add more bite to the song and my voice as I turn my head to the side and lock burning gazes with Don, grasping the mike stand with both hands. I'm competing. _"Oh mother, tell your children not to do what I have done." _I sneer at him, adding a rough growl to my tone. _"Spend your lives in sin and misery. In the House of the Rising Sun."_

I practically bare my teeth at Don before I focus my attention back on my captivated audience. Most are singing with me; it's a well-known tune. Others listen intently, and some sway to the keyboard and guitar's easy melodies.

I don't know what this night holds for me anymore. What will happen between me and Don? An epic argument? My ass getting beaten? Or worse?

I begin to sweat, feeling overheated under the stage lights. Having Don (in power) nearby doesn't make matters any better.

But I press on. I don't want to finish, but I have to. So short…

"_Well, I've got one foot on the platform. The other foot on the train…"_ I trail off, shutting my eyes again _"…I'm going back to New Orleans. To wear that ball and chain."_

My heart grows heavier every second as I close the song. The band does, too, drawing out each line for longer than originally sung. Emphasis on the end. Signaling the end.

My eyelids burn. _"Well, there is a house in New Orleans."_ I take a shuddering breath and pale. Why did I do this? _"They call the Rising Sun."_ I feel the tears pressing against my eyes, hot at the corners. _"And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy."_

My head sinks down. Low. Heavy. _"And god, I know I'm one."_

The curtains actually close to the appreciative applause. I'm grateful. No one but the band will see what I'm doing. I release my death-grip on the microphone, and in the dark, find Don.

With shocking strength, I exit the stage, dragging him after me. He only doesn't resist because we both knew it had to come. He had to have known that I've known about him for a while now.

Down the stairs, out the back door.

Into the back alley.

_Smart, Ames. Especially for a confrontation._

Now that we're outside, I release Don's arm, and he rubs the spot, wincing. Must've had a firmer grip than I'd thought. My blood bubbles like lava beneath my skin's surface. Since entering Wonderland, the night air has gotten darker and chillier, which does nothing to cool me down.

A flickering lamppost at the end of the alley is our only light. And my trashcan is still here.

I take calming breaths and clench my fists. But instead of attempting to knock Don's teeth out, I start to pace up and down the alley. Like a crazy person. God, who knows what else is lurking in here? I've had my share of plenty of odd encounters.

I don't know what to do, now that I'm actually in the moment.

Don observes my frenzy with a cocky, charming smile. "Can you make this quick? I have a few more songs to do—"

"Shut up," I snarl as I march up to him and get in his handsomely rugged face. The sound of his voice had triggered me into finding myself. But is this really me?

He wants it to be quick. He doesn't have time to hurt me. Time for answers? Maybe.

I take small comfort in this and steel myself.

Nearly jabbing my index finger up Don's nose, I spill my suspicions, hoping to catch him off guard. "I know who you are," I claim triumphantly.

Don frowns. "And?"

I almost stop dead and lower my hand as I give him an _angry_ look. "You're one of Falcone's men."

"Yes." He's not even denying it…

I sag. "And you know everything. About Dad, about my mom." My voice drops to a hoarse whisper. "About _me._"

"We've kind of already established that." Is there even any point in appealing to his better nature? Maybe I'll try it just the same.

_No._ With the truth about him finally out in the open, Don's confident, sparkling eyes have changed into excited, glinting rocks. It terrifies me, despite all my bravery. He's himself at long last. He can stop pretending.

I'm still taller than him, but he seems to loom over me now. I unknowingly take a step back. Don follows.

"Falcone's using you to get to me. Why?"

Don, still maintaining a friendly air (in a dark alley, of all places), gives me a crooked, half-smile. "He thought you would fall for a pretty face. That he could hurt you through me. Falcone was wrong." He gets a thoughtful expression. "You're not like other girls, Ames."

A compliment. Really? With that, some of my aggressiveness returns. "So, it didn't work."

"Obviously."

I take another step back. He follows again. I swallow. "But Naomi? Why Naomi?" Like I don't already know.

Don shrugs. "Falcone received a tip about you two being friends. True or not, you care about her, Manson."

"And he thinks he'll get to me, _hurt_ me, through her? By harming her?" I choose my words carefully, playing dumb. Another step back, which is again mirrored.

I feel the cold, hard wall of the alley at my back. There is nowhere to go.

"Right-o," is Don's response. His now-darker eyes flicker. "Because it will feel like your fault."

My heart lodges itself in my throat. "I swear, if you've hurt one hair on her head I'll—"

"Do what?" he interrupts me, grinning. I'm now lost for words, in full panic mode. "What makes you think I haven't already?"

My throat tightens as he gets closer, and I'm pretty sure my eyes are bugging out of my head. I shake it wildly back and forth. "Because the time's not right!" I blurt out. _Will not cry, must not cry._ "And besides, she's home sick. With mono."

And I'm shocked to see a look of pure surprise flash across Don's malicious expression. We are ten inches apart. "Oh. Well. I wasn't aware."

Even he hadn't known Naomi's condition or whereabouts. Doesn't she talk to him anymore? Maybe she'd wised up? My hope rises.

But I still feel sick to my gut. I try to slice holes into Don's high forehead with my eyes as I hiss, "You fiend! After all that time you've spent with her…don't you feel anything for her at all?"

And Don hesitates. Pauses, as if to think. Then…nothing.

"No," he answers flippantly. And I'd decided to appeal to his better nature at that moment.

Rage flares up, and I lose my sanity. "You cold, unfeeling bastard—" I cut off my own sentence with a loud cry as I, feeling claustrophobic between him and the wall, throw an amateur punch at Don's head.

Stupid-ass move.

He dodges easily, darting to the side. And as I stumble forward and lose my balance after overlunging, he grabs my other arm and sweeps my legs out from under me.

My back and head hit cold, hard alleyway street.

Black spots in my vision…wind knocked out of me… _I'm not hurt, _I realize, laying there. _I just…can't move._

Don stands over me, tutting disapprovingly. "Violence was uncalled for, Ames," he scolds.

Ow…headache…

Just let me go home. I surrender all.

"And I'm getting the feeling that this discussion was a complete waste of my time. You learned nothing new." He shakes his head at my immobile form. "Master manipulator, all right."

I would kick him if I could. I've injured my pride more than anything.

"Well, Manson," Don sighs as he walks back to the back door and opens it. Dim light creeps through. I find that I have to roll my eyes toward the back of my head if I want to keep him in view. Right now, I'm feeling murderous. Humiliated. "See you around." He disappears inside.

_What just happened?_

I stay there for ten minutes, overwhelmed with concern. And in those ten minutes, I'm left alone. Meaning I'm not raped or mugged while splayed out here defenselessly. After a while, I learn how to pick myself up, brush myself off, and go home, defeated. Beaten. Nearly broken.

What I need…what I need is a good cry. And a good sleep.

* * *

><p>"You shouldn't be thinking that heavily. You'll damage your brain permanently."<p>

My head snaps up, and I glare across from me at Jonathan Crane. Why does it seem like when I'm _not_ happy, he is? I scowl. "I'm in a mood. I feel like I need to punch in every direction at once, but I won't hit anything."

And up goes the eyebrow.

It's Monday, and we're at the lunch table once more. I keep my gaze low. _Don't drag him in on your problems…_ After getting over the initial shock of yesterday's encounter (my back HURTS and I've got a killer bruise on my elbow, in addition to the lump on my head from the lamp), I've been rather depressed and a little quieter than usual. Jonathan has taken notice.

I haven't seen Naomi today. I suppose mono can last up to a month.

"You're not your usual irritating self." Jonathan inches forward, a look of light concern on his usually stoic face, and adjusts his new glasses. He's actually tucked that hair behind his ears. Ew. "Talk to me."

_I want to…_

I snort and wave my hand dismissively. "I wouldn't expect you to understand. You're left-brained…right-brained…whatever." I can't remember which is which.

"That's a myth."

"I'll send you home with a rupture," I threaten, blushing.

He smirks and pushes his empty lunch tray to the side, leaning toward me and folding his hands on the table in front of him. "Ames. I'm listening."

This is turning into a therapy session. He's going to think I'm such a moron, risking my neck like that. I gulp and give up. "Well, see, yesterday night I kind of…" And I give him a quick rundown of my showdown with Don. Though it's a summary, I don't leave anything out. The entire time, I can't meet his eyes. But when I mention my throwing of a punch and Don's retaliation, I glance up in time to see his blue orbs widen fractionally.

After I finish (I'm flaring red), the silence, disrupted by other lunchroom laughs and conversations, is a ringing one. And then…

"Idiot."

"Yeah. Tell me something I don't know," I groan as Jonathan straightens up from his "psychiatrist" position. I knew he'd react that way; I called it.

Jonathan rakes a stressed hand through his stringy chestnut hair. "I though you would have been able to figure it out on your own, but confronting Don was _not_ letting things take their course." He actually sounds frustrated with me. There's a chance he's trying to keep me alive after all…

But I swear to the stars that he's _mad._ My head sinks in shame. Yep, the stupidity of my actions is hitting me again…

"Are you hurt?"

His firm tone makes my head jerk up again, and I sigh. This is bad for my neck. Does he care? Why does he care? "Sore, but no." I pointedly keep my left elbow off the table.

"Leave the matter alone. There's nothing you can do," Jonathan instructs, eyes blazing. He stops after each sentence, to make it all sink in to my puny brain even more. "I offer up my former advice."

To let things take their natural course. "All right. Fine." I've been tamed.

"You can be so stupid," Crane mutters. Almost…_fondly._ But not quite. "As a result, all these wonderful things keep happening to you."

I laugh weakly and drop my head onto the lunch table with a loud _whack!_ "It's only gonna take about one more wonderful thing to send me around to the dark side of the Psycho Moon."

He doesn't quite have a response to that.

"It seems that my morals are keeping me from sitting by and doing _nothing_." I tip my head up, the lump there smarting from my carelessness, and squint at Crane desperately. "Why does it feel so wrong?" _I can't do it…_

Jonathan has always been cold and logical and unfeeling, unconcerned for the well-being of others if he feels they deserve it, and as a result, the genius shakes his head at me slowly, as if silently telling me I have much to learn about life.

I do. But I don't want to yet.

The bell rings, scattering our conversation and thoughts into the furthest crevices of our minds. To be dug out later, when things are beyond our control, and when nothing else can be done.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Any questions on the right-brained, left-brained thing? I'll explain it gladly, to the best of my limited ability.**

**If you want a good idea of what Ames' voice sounds like, check out Lzzy Hale from Halestorm, and their song "Love Bites (And So Do I)." She kicks ass! How a woman SHOULD sing. I know I said Pat Benatar, but that was ****Ames****' mother speaking…**

**Officially a high school graduate! I MADE IT! And I'm all registered for college classes. Financial aid has been accepted, and everything isn't as expensive as I'd thought. And guess what? I'M MAJORING IN PSYCHOLOGY!**

**One of my fond memories of high school is watching a classmate yell "NO!" during play practice every time his phone told him to say a command. XD**

**One of my favorite things to do? Fall asleep to Pink Floyd. *blissful sigh***

**FOR ALL AVENGERS FANS: I just saw the movie for the third time. And let me tell you, EVERY time I've seen it, driving home, a song from the soundtrack would come onto my radio. "Live to Rise" by Soundgarden.**** It was cool but freaky…if anyone needs an explanation of the post-credits scenes, let me know.**

**And I didn't know if anyone else saw this, but I caught it. Towards the end of the Avengers, they are doing live news coverage on all these different televisions. If you look closely, at the end of them, you can see a kid with a Captain America shield riding around on someone's shoulders. I know (because I have the picture) that Tom Hiddleston is giving him a boost in that shot. IN his Loki outfit! You can only see a side view and the top half of his head, but it's there. That's him! I feel very proud to have caught that. AND IT'S JUST AWESOME! IF YOU SAW IT LET ME KNOW!**

**Here's the story link (no spaces**): **www . g33kwatch .com/ movies/story-of-a-five-year-old-avenger-meeting-the-avengers/ #comment-7790**

**Did I mention _Avengers 2_ has been officially confirmed?**

**Movie Recommendation: _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind._ Beautiful.**

**Has anyone seen _Citizen Kane_? Supposed to be the greatest movie of all time. Like, officially.**

**Question of the Day: What is a random phrase you've heard? Like, two odd words strung together.**

**Next chapter, you will all abandon me…*facepalm* Or get frustrated. Or hate me. It depends on your personality.**

**Talk to me  
><strong>**with this button.**


	25. God Kicks

**A/N: *waves* Hello, everyone! All I'm going to say is that I was in ****Chicago**** for a week and got nothing accomplished during that week. On this story, anyway. This chapter has pushed my Word document over the 400 page mark. WHOOO! Sorry for the upload so late at night. So here's the chapter. I really hope I didn't freak you guys out with my last author's note.**

**Oh, anonymous reviewers. I only wish you people would actually log in when you go to criticize. I'm not going to bite or snap back at you; I'd actually just like to discuss how you've impacted me and as a result, what I'm going to change. Or to explain it a little better. So there's no need to be afraid. Now, a few things I'd like to say, since I can't respond to you in private, I put it here. So you can read it.**

**I'm going to keep the particular review on this story. Simply because you really made me think about a few things, and I realized how right you were on a lot of it. But I can't change what I've already written. HOWEVER, I can change the future, and I'm seriously opening up my notebook of ideas and crossing plans out, especially regarding Ames' father and Falcone's reasons (not love, just being stolen from and double-crossed; all will be specified). And with _The Crucible,_ let's just say that about a year ago, when I was writing this story, I was VERY young. Very inexperienced. A lot of the unneeded compliments, makeup details, singing, and _The Crucible _are things I wish I would've never started on. And I'm planning to focus more on Jonathan/Ames interactions rather than classes and arts this year.**

**I'm glad you've decided to keep reading though; it stuns me that you've put up with it as far as you have been. At least ****Ames**** isn't a _complete_ Mary Sue; by the way, _everyone, every character,_ has a temper. It gets better after chapter 16; sorry it took me so long to wise up. You also help me check myself and improve. But thank you for the compliments, when given. I'm writing this to respond to you only, not to use you as an example. Criticism IS appreciated, and you have made a huge impact. *bows* I am grateful.**

**FOR THE REST OF YOU: As for my random word or phrase, my father brought up "toe cheese" out of the blue. I also heard one of the seniors one years say something about, "Russian toilets." And I came across a hilarious insult the other day, from a movie, used at the end of this chapter. "Gutless turd." XD**

**Thanks to **Knightrunner, linnie kinda spinnie, SladeRavenFan, Eva Sirico, x-Miss-SeaBreeze-x, Comidia Del Arte, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, Arlena4815162342, pourquoibella, LittleMissAngel, The Lady Clouds, Ikari no Ojo, BANEHiwatari, Miss Magenta Lestrange, finishyourtea, tribute14, Serena, darkdeadmau5, anonymous, **and **SilhouetteGypsy **for the reviews! You are great motivation. And thanks for all the faves/alerts.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! If I did, well, I don't know what I'd do to make anything better. -_-**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Five: God Kicks<strong>

_Counting by numbers is kinder._

_Invest in one with the silencer._

_All of the studies say if they're_

_Calm when they die then they taste better._

_**~The **_**_Dresden_****_ Dolls, The Sheep Song_**

* * *

><p>My fears are alleviated a little; I do see Naomi the next day. In the hallway. And I'm so relieved that she's back. What had been wrong with her? Don obviously hadn't seen her for a few days. <em>But I feel better,<em> I decide, leaning against my locker and watching her amble down the hall. It's before lunch. And then I frown.

Not all is right.

_It's her posture,_ I realize, craning my neck to follow her dark-haired head as it gets swallowed up by the mass of students. I haven't seen her face, but Naomi's head is down. Her shoulders, hunched. Hugging her books to her chest. Her normally sprightly gait, slow.

_It's almost like she's…defeated. Or has accepted the weight of the world._ Worried? Beaten? Depressed? Whatever it is, it's so un-Naomi that it makes me sick.

Great. I'm turning into Jonathan. I'm also going to have permanent frown lines someday; I need more happiness in my life. Not kidding.

Worries temporarily abated, I go to lunch stress-free.

But Naomi doesn't show up for school the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after. Now Friday, I find that all my fears return, but I'm unable to give them voice.

I choose not to confide in Jonathan; it's not because he won't understand though. He's noticed her absence as well.

_Don…that bastard. Don… _No one but he and Falcone have managed to piss me off so badly.

Jonathan and I are seated at our lunch table near the doors. It is quiet; he is reading, and I, with no lunch, alternate between resting my head on my arms folded upon the table and staring out the glass doors.

It's raining today. All I can see is gray and black, drizzly wetness. I don't care that the droplets make pretty sounds. It's so dreary. Occasionally, I feel Jonathan's scorching eyes linger on me before returning to his own business. Wouldn't he normally pry?

Now, I'm looking out into the rain. And my head feels heavy. The silence coming from me is unnatural.

A gaggle of giggling, gossiping girls passes by our table, whispering behind manicured fingers and eyeshadow-smeared eyes flitting over, through, and around Jonathan and me. I barely give them a second's notice.

Crane glances at me. Choosing not to confront them, my silence, is not my usual course of action. Normally, I'd be going on a mental rampage about how shallow the girls in my class are. But instead, I keep my opinions to myself.

Outside, I swear the sky just got darker, and the raindrops, larger.

Jonathan clears his throat to get my attention. "Ames."

That smooth, mature voice does nothing to pull my stormy eyes away from the weather beyond the doors. I respond with a very vacant, "Hm?"

My head is laden with thoughts and worries about Don, the Mob, and Naomi. Even the idea of the upcoming weekend doesn't snap me out of it. My brow remains furrowed.

Crane sees my absence in attention. "I…never mind." He proceeds to stick his nose back in his book.

At least these preoccupations haven't affected my grades. Only a few weeks into the school year, and I'm doing all right. Two more blocks, plant science and novels, to go to today.

The bell rings, signaling that the lunch period is over. I sigh and stand up. Jonathan snaps his thick psychology book shut. "See you later," I tell him dully. Tonelessly. Emotionlessly. He nods his head and gives me that creepy blue stare until I disappear from view. _Why doesn't he ask? If he cares so much?_

_The pessimistic thoughts are NOT helping! You've got to snap out of it._

I take a turn down the hallway that'll lead me to the plant science classroom. _Who said anything was wrong? __Moron__._

I do snap myself out of it, in the middle of class. Except my mood changes from depressed to pissy after I'm unable to remember anything I read the night before for our quiz today. As a result, I get annoyed at the world. And there are fifty-three kids in this plant science class. Our graduating class, we seniors, is one of the smaller classes to have come through in a while. Our class size is 228 students.

I put my quiz on our teacher's desk with a grimace; I know I bombed it. Too many worries occupy my head instead of knowledge. I'll be the first to admit that plant science isn't my strongest area anyway and is the reason for my lowest grade (a B-), so I leave fourth period in a worse mood than the one I had when I came in.

I should take a poll; would you rather have Ames Manson depressed or pissy?

Snorting to myself, I head to novels.

Even in the hallway, at this point, the rain hammering on the roof grows louder and heavier. I stop amid the mass of kids to listen to it. And…there's a roll of thunder. It's getting worse outside. How black is it? Soon, it'll be dark. Dark as it gets.

_I like thunderstorms just fine. But today, not so much,_ I say silently. So, I throw my whole head into novels class to escape my inner demons.

I drum my fingers on the cover of our assigned book, growing more frustrated by the second. I made myself a promise to not stand out this year in school, but this is killing me! Am I seriously the only one who did the reading the other day? Not yesterday, obviously. The novels class isn't that big (one of the smallest, actually), but still… My left eye twitches.

As another question about _The_ _Great Gatsby _goes unanswered, I break my promise to myself, unable to sit dumb and still for any longer. All it takes is the deafening silence as our poor teacher casts her disappointed eyes down upon us.

"Oh, for—" I raise my hand. Maybe a bit uncalled for, but I have to answer the question…

I get it right, and I settle back in my seat, secretly pleased and hating myself at the same time.

Smugness is never a good quality to have.

As soon as the last bell rings, I sprint out of the classroom, to the sound of pounding rain droplets and make a beeline for my locker. I need to get out of this school.

I haven't seen much of Paul this year, come to think of it.

To my surprise, Jonathan confronts me just as I slam my locker shut. An empty folder in hand (what for?), schoolbag slung over his shoulder.

I don't want to see him, because I've been acting poorly all day. Those eyes _burn._

"Please, go away," I insist, giving him my back as I prepare to glide away. _I don't want to be forced to snap at you. _At least I'm polite about it.

He tails me, keeping up with my long strides more easily than he used to. "I do not deserve to be treated like this," he fairly spits. I banish any feelings of guilt.

"Why do you care?" I answer back. He's matching my pace now, glaring at me sideways.

He sneers, "I'm not sure what your problem is today, but this is not how you normally behave. You're too distant. To others, sure; that's normal. But never to me." We slow down a bit as we pass through the double-doors. "Whether it's a feminine issue or—"

"A feminine issue!" I practically screech, blood rushing to my face. Now in the lunchroom, the sound of rain is even more deafening. "You've got to be kidding me! You still haven't said why you care. Why does this mood of mine bother you?"

"And you haven't given me a reason for your behavior," he retorts, pushing his glasses up his nose with a long finger.

I swear I'm going to cut all his hair off. Even I can't come up with an excuse for the way I'm acting. Except for _feelings,_ concerns…I've got nothing. I'm not focused or even looking at much else except for getting through the front doors and heading home.

I feel like I can't see anything either.

Instead of speed-walking with fire in our veins, Jonathan and I force ourselves to slow to a causal stroll. I still think I'm marching with jerky, stompy steps. "You know, I don't have to tell you anything." Am I teasing him now by keeping him out of my brain or…?

Jonathan scowls and tries to cut me off, but I keep ahead of him. "Never stopped you before; why is today any different?"

The rain is closer.

"Stop trying to get inside my head!" I exclaim. "And, I'm not going to answer that."

"You're acting like a child."

I grit my teeth. Almost to the doors…

"A stubborn mule."

…

Did he just indirectly call me an ass?

My spine is rigid as I slam my palms against the front doors and shove them open, leaving palm prints on the glass. Jonathan is right on my caboose. I want to cry; I'm so ashamed of myself and my treatment of him.

The rain is upon us now. The sky, our atmosphere, dark gray. I stride right into the wet, not shielding myself from it. Hair instantly drenched, drops running into my eyes. But surprisingly…warm. Not cold or freezing. For fall. It feels…good.

Crane seems to disagree. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him hold his empty folder over his head for cover and express his distaste, while I let the rain pour. I do admire the fact that he's stuck with and followed me this far. Again, why? Just why? He gets so much enjoyment out of vexing me.

My shoes slosh against the wet concrete. Finally, I speak. Okay, I'll tell him. "Jonathan, I think—"

At that moment, at long last, I decide to pay attention to my surroundings. And am greeted with an unusual sight. "What the heck?" I nearly stop walking, and Jonathan pulls up beside me, noticing as well.

Nearly the whole population of Gotham High is in the middle of the parking lot, huddled together in a crowd, despite the rain. It seems like they're watching something; I can't tell. Their backs are to us.

"What's happening?" Even Crane is perplexed. I shrug, our massive dispute forgotten. Water streams into my eyes. I am soaked.

We advance forward together, me slightly in front of Jonathan, approaching the huge crowd of people. Unable to move slowly, I break into a sprint and run the last couple yards as I reach the mass. There's a _splat!_ behind me as Jonathan drops his folder into a puddle and rushes to keep up.

A lump works its way into my throat. I delve into the crowd, elbowing and pushing people as I make my way to the very front. My eyes are wide. Crane is right behind me.

And then I hear it. All around. High keening. Tears.

_Stop. Stop now._ I've never learned to listen to that little voice.

I'm desperately pushing to reach something; I don't even know what.

_Almost there… _I find myself blocked by a particularly bulky body. Forgetting myself, I place both hands on the hulking back and shove. My last obstacle shifts out of the way, and with a few more well-placed elbows, I break through the crowd, in front, with Jonathan at my back. And look down in front of me.

The teachers…the students… They aren't _watching_ something.

My hand flies to my mouth. Jonathan freezes. _I knew it._

A body. Splayed out in a pool of rainwater. It only takes me a moment to recognize the brown hair, the brown skin. _Naomi._

I take a shuddering breath. _I knew it. Some part of me knew it._ Why can't I stop staring? Eyes clouded over, glassy. A gray death pallor to the dark skin. Motionless. Unmoving. _Dead._

There's an odd buzzing in my ears, and I stumble back. I feel Jonathan's hands grip my shoulders, steadying me.

A tiny piece of me snaps. Silently.

_Naomi…they got her. And I couldn't do anything._ The world has gone soundless.

But I'm not crying; why am I not crying?

My vision turns red when I see the cause of death. The purple and black finger-shaped bruises around her neck. And there, next to her outstretched arm, is a sopping wet cigar stub. He would've left his mark, a sign.

Everyone else has broken down, so why not me? It's my fault. I'm looking at a dead body with no reaction. Except for the regret and pity welling up inside me. No emotions directed at anything but _myself._

On impulse, I crank my head around observe Jonathan. He has no reaction to the body, staring down at it. But his hands are still latched onto my shoulders, knuckles white. I look more closely. A clenched jaw. But a blank face. No expression.

Crane notices my gaze, sees the guilt there, and locks eyes with me. "Ames. It's not your fault," he says quietly.

But I shake my head at him slowly, a small, sad smile on my face. Disagreeing. I'm a monster. My drenched hair falls into my eyes with the rain as I drop my head down. He hasn't let go of me.

I don't pull away, either. The adults here…shouldn't they be doing something about this other than bawling their eyes out? Ushering the kids away? Covering her body? Calling her mother? Being the grown-ups?

Please tell me they called the cops and an ambulance at least.

My clenched fists tremble. And I snort. _The cops…they don't give a shit. They're not going to look into this. I can't tell them about the Mob. Or Falcone. Or Don. First of all, they won't take them on. Secondly, they won't believe me._

I hold my peace, and at the same time, realize the reason I'm not terribly sad. Or crying.

_Jonathan._

He is my reason; my negative emotions are being evened out with the feeling of _relief._ Thank god. It _was_ a good thing Jonathan was gone all summer. Falcone could have seen _us_ together and gone for him instead of Naomi. I should be happy, ecstatic, that my dearest friend is still alive and well, but she had been such a nice girl. The only one in that group of bitches who had been kind to and accepting of me.

This is Falcone's way of reminding me that he's always watching. Waiting.

_This is wrong…we shouldn't be staring. She should be taken care of. This is disrespectful._

I don't know how long we stand there over Naomi's corpse, all of us gathered in the parking lot, before we hear the familiar whine of sirens approaching. And finally, the teachers take charge, ushering us back from the grizzly site as an ambulance and three GCPD cars pull into the lot.

Three. Only three. I guess they don't need much to pick up a body that's been dumped off at a high school.

As paramedics approach her, I turn away. Right into Jonathan's chest. I jerkily step to the side, and he finally releases me. I can't watch the officials put her into a body bag.

The rain mixes with tears. A drop hits me square in the eye, and I blink it away.

Does her mother even know yet?

_All my fault… It's all my fault…because of me. Because she got involved on a stupid sighting. Because I decided to be social that day._

Will the police even take note of that cigar stub? Did Don finish it? I know who's responsible, but who actually killed her?

Raindrops run off the tip of my nose. "Ashes, ashes. We all fall down." My lips are numb as the thought in my head turns into a weak whisper of a song. I don't realize I've sung it slowly, so slowly, out loud.

"What?" It's Jonathan. He's followed suit and turned away as well. Next to me once more. Cool. Logical. Steady.

I don't answer. I can't.

I'm not sure how long it takes for the body to be hauled away, for the cops and ambulance to leave, for the teachers and students to disperse. But eventually, all is done. All that's left to do is go to Black Jack and go home. A piece of my right-mind has gone with Naomi, staying with her.

At the edge of my peripheral vision, as I start to walk to my truck, I see Jonathan raise a hand, almost as if he's going to reach for me. To touch my shoulder. To stop me. Then he pulls back.

The rain pours. The thunder rolls. And I don't feel anything at all.

* * *

><p>Mom is sitting at the dining room table with bookwork when I enter the house, soaked to the bone and numb. However, a bright spark of anger flares to a wildfire inside me. I remember her refusal to help. Out of the belief that I was lying. Depending to much on her own knowledge.<p>

Her dainty face is annoyed. "I was wondering where you were! You're almost an hour late, young lady! How many times do I have to talk to you about—" She stops as she finally takes in my stone face, dripping hair and clothes, and my rigid stance. The darkness in my eyes. "Ames, honey, what happened?"

Automatically, my eyes narrow, and I look past her instead of at her. Then, as dead as you please, as straight as you please, I tell her what I need to. "Naomi's dead."

"Ames, what—?"

"—she's dead. I warned you. I told you to do something, and you didn't." Each word has a sharpness and a shortness about it generally not associated with me. Every consonant clicks against my teeth. I direct my gaze at her now. Her face is confused. And afraid. "You didn't believe your own daughter. And now, a girl is dead. I told you, and you ignored it."

I am hollow. Deadly calm. Mom's mouth falls open. Maybe she doesn't believe me again. I wouldn't be surprised.

My words are said; my business is done. Exhausted, I take the stairs up to my room. At the same time, I believe that I am no better; I told no one but Mom and Jonathan. I could've done more. _You're a teenage girl. She's an adult._

She believes me.

Mom begins to rush up the stairs after me, then torn, changes her mind, running for the phone.

* * *

><p>The administration doesn't even call off school. But more than a fourth of the high-school students skip Monday and Tuesday regardless. It doesn't surprise me to see Kelly, Summer, and Destiny gone. False friends. I'd bet my nose they aren't out visiting the family.<p>

I'm here. In school. Jonathan's here.

Every member of the senior class has been graced with an excused absence tomorrow. Wednesday. Naomi's funeral. I'm not even sure if I'm going. It still hasn't completely hit me yet.

_Senior class of 1994,_ I muse. _227 students total._

So much for avoiding the thought.

Crane and I are both desperately trying not to talk about Naomi. But from his cool, judgmental stare, he can assume that's what I'm thinking about.

As of late, I've been oblivious to his probing. You'd probably think he'd enjoy the silence, but he is concerned about my well-being, being as "unhealthily attached" as he is. Jonathan doesn't want to show it, so he settles for staring at me, hoping to suck the thoughts right out of my head.

I'm a dry wasteland that's going to blow its top. Someone get a vacuum cleaner.

I hate myself for not crying over this. For not physically seeming to care that Naomi's gone. Every feeling is directed at myself, Don, the Mob, and that meddling bastard Falcone. For myself, hate, guilt, painful inner turmoil, and regret. For all the rest…simple hate. Once I let those emotions go, I'll be able to grieve properly.

I _should_ write, draw, something, in the meantime so they're not bottled up inside me. But I don't _want_ to let it out.

_Avenge._ See, those are the kinds of feelings I'm talking about.

I highly doubt that Jonathan, of all people, knows how to give comfort when it's needed. He's never had anyone to comfort. Like me. I'm a gooey mass of scrambled emotions.

For once in our lives, the lunchroom is quiet. Or quieter than normal. I stare blankly off into space. Jonathan looks at me, licks his lips, opens his mouth, and shuts it.

Pain spikes through me at his giving up. Maybe I'm not so unemotional after all.

Ten minutes go by. Of silence.

"What did she fear?" Jonathan's probing voice brings me back.

_Why do you want to know?_ I sigh and rub my forehead, frowning. "I don't know." I give a bitter laugh, testy at him for being concerned over such a thing. "You know, I really don't want to talk about it." Another snort. "And that's none of your business anyway," I declare, throwing my clean fork onto the table. I'm defending Naomi in death now, if I couldn't in life.

"Ames, don't keep things bottled up inside. It's not healthy."

Being lectured doesn't ever sit well with me, but I keep my mouth shut.

"You should be listening. Don't make me push you," he threatens.

I lose my cool. "I don't want to hear it!"

He sits up straight, as if hit with an idea, and in a snap, his whole demeanor changes. "Stop blaming yourself. It's better this way, with her gone."

I freeze. "What?"

"Really, if you think about it, what would she have achieved in life? A stupid, ignorant girl. A fool."

I stare at him with wide, shocked eyes. I can't believe what I'm hearing. Such coldness. Void of emotion. Stiff logic. No care for a fallen girl, a fellow human. But at the same time, I see him searching me, scoping my expression for any sort of reaction. _Is this a test? What is he trying to make me do?_

Again, I ask dumbly, "What?"

Crane's eyes flicker to mine, their color blue steel. Arrogant. "Yes, she was certainly on the path to greatness. Putting herself to very good use," he states coldly, looking down his nose at me. Something that doesn't happen very often. _He's a very good actor._

What is he even—? I do very credible imitation of a goldfish. After, my temper flares up, and I'm angry. Very angry. _Is this his goal? He doesn't mean it, does he?_

"Worthless. Insignificant. Face it,Ames. This is better than her meager, futile existence. If only the same would happen to the others," he sneers.

This is his true self. And I'm terrified, on top of furious.

Cold, unfeeling, insensitive bastard! Can he not see my inner pain?

And just like that, he reaches his goal. His mission is accomplished as I break and stand up, chair sliding out from under me with a screech. "Stop it! Shut up!" I swear everyone in the lunchroom is staring at us. I shoot venom out of my eyes.

He smoothly raises an eyebrow at me and settles back into his chair, arms crossed and satisfied. _I see what he's done. He just tricked me—forced me!—into letting my emotions out by pushing my sore spots. By pricking my suppressed feelings._

I can't stay with this guy!

"This…this superiority complex thing you have has got to stop!" Too loud; I'm making a scene, so I lower my voice to a whisper. "She had a little sister, Crane." I hate what he's forced me into.

He glares at me and shrugs, knowing that since he's kickstarted my spill, it won't stop until it's all out. I never call him by his last name to his face. I'm breaking, slowly, because of him. I've _never_ yelled at him like this; he doesn't want my emotions holed up inside, like he said, so he popped the balloon.

I understand why he's said those things, but why can't I stop blubbering?

Tears sting my eyes as my pulse throbs in my ears. "I can't handle this. How do you think I feel, huh?" I head for the girls' restroom. When I get there, I collapse on the floor, an emotional wreck.

_Did I just dump him?_

I don't know. I _know_ I didn't hurt him. Did I end our friendship? It's truly scary how robotic he can be when needed.

I remain, frazzled, on the floor of the bathroom for the rest of lunch. _I think our companionship is screwed. He's too much for me. He got inside my head without hardly trying. He got reaction he wanted, for my good. How can I forgive him for that?_

I couldn't handle reality and messed up. Again. _You gutless turd._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Just wondering here…how many people have actually looked up any of the songs I put at the beginning of the chapters? XD**

**I'm sorry for the gloomy chapter; it had to happen, guys. Sometimes you need one. I just felt it. I really hope this sits all right with you, but you should've seen it coming at some point. Let me know how you feel. Also, on the "breakup" of Jonathan and ****Ames****. Too sudden? Does her spastic temper annoy you? I'll also add that I'm trying to unleash Crane's future character, little by little, and still make him closer to ****Ames****. It is not easy.**

**On the brighter side, I have an "I told you so" moment. Director Christopher Nolan said in an interview that Anne Hathaway's character, Selina Kyle, will NOT be referred to as "Catwoman" in _The Dark Knight Rises_. But it'll be stuck in everyone's heads anyway. Me? I'm working on just calling her "Selina Kyle" ahead of time. So get it out of your heads! There are about four or more different TV spots up on youtube, if you want to check those out. She is going to be something else… 'Course, I'm not your mother, so do what you want, I guess.**

**On another happy note, I fulfilled by goal of seeing _The Avengers_ four times. YAY! Better each time. For those interested, the DVD/BluRay release date is September 25, and will include an alternate ending, deleted scenes, director commentary, and more. Joy for fellow Loki fans, _Thor 2_'s release date has been moved up a week and will be hitting theaters November 8 of 2013.**

**Has anyone seen _Prometheus_ yet?**

**Question of the Day: What's your blood type? I donate frequently, so I know mine!**

**IMPORTANT FOR ALL FANFICTION READERS AND AUTHORS: As you may have heard, this website has begun deleting, without given notice, many M-rated stories on this site containing scenes of explicit sexual content or violence. Apparently, these surpass the "M" rating to a "MA" rating, which has been "banned." I also think that is a load of bullshit. Some of the best-written and beautiful stories on this site contain that content, which I have no problem with, and now they are being lost because suddenly has a pinecone lodged up its ass. What happened to freedom of press, speech, "unleash your imagination", and all that sweet stuff? Bastards. So anyway, there is a petition going around, and I'm posting the link below. GET US THERE! FIGHT BACK! We will NOT be silenced!**

**Link (no spaces or parentheses): /petitions/fanfiction-net-stop-the-destruction-of-fanfiction-net?utm_campaign=friend_inviter_modal&utm_medium=facebook&utm_source=share_petition**

**And the usual. Review, share, put on faves/alerts, and I'll get back to you. Let me know! There's a lot to talk about here.**

**Love me  
><strong>**with this button.**


	26. Dirt and Roses

**A/N: Long chapter ahead. It's actually probably one of my favorite ones, and it basically wrote itself. Thoughts and inner contemplation ahoy! I really hope it doesn't sound like a "woe is me" session.**

**IMPORTANT: I felt really unsatisfied with the last chapter, so I edited it and replaced it. ****Ames****' pissy mood is based off the fact that she couldn't remember anything she studied the night before, and so failed a quiz as a result. And for the confrontation between Crane and her…I removed all mention of her actually say she "was done" with him. So she never really broke it off. She doesn't know what she exactly did, anyway. That is all. Jonathan also had motives behind is cruel words that I've defined a little more, but I've brought them up in this chapter.**

**I'm being to edit the rest of the story as well. Working on getting those chaps replaced…**

**Also, ****Ames**** is not developing a superpower, nor will she ever. I'm sorry; it doesn't fit into Nolan-verse at all. The dreams were…well, I'm not going to say what the dreams were.**

**Thanks to **deppgirl95**, **Deeai003, Glister, SilhouetteGypsy, TonightWeDieRomantic, MoonDemon36, linnie kinda spinnie, tribute14, ForgeandGred4Ever, pourquoibella, Decepticon-silverstreak, darkdeadmau5, Wafia Primo, Drake, SladeRavenFan, Arlena4815162342, kaflute14, Miss Magenta Lestrange, Ikari no Ojo, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, Fruityloops87, .Affair, Knightrunner, Comidia Del Arte, LittleMissAngel, Thunderscourge, SombodyStandingThere, **and **England101 **for the reviews! Thanks for all the faves/alerts as well. Special thanks to** Thunderscourge **and** SombodyStandingThere **for taking the time to put together some well-written criticism. That helps me more than you know.**

**This chapter is dedicated to** TonightWeDieRomantic, **because she took the time to create sections of ****Ames****' house on Sims 3. And from what I've seen, they are pretty amazing. I love the imagination you guys have. The link for the screenshots is below (no spaces):  
><strong>hadweybishh .deviantart gallery/37810590? offset=0

**In case you missed it the first time (the link didn't turn out in my last author's note), the link for the fanfiction petition is below (no spaces):  
><strong>change petitions/fanfiction-net-stop-the-destruction-of-fanfiction-net? utm_campaign=friend_inviter_modal&utm_medium= facebook&utm_source=share_petition

**At this point, if you have not seen _Prometheus, _GO SEE IT.**

**My blood type is O- . Universal Giver, baby :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own yada yada yada yada yada. Cry me a river, build a bridge, and get over it. And don't sue. The lyrics to Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" are not mine. See? I've been reduced to stealing…**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Six: Dirt and Roses<strong>

_She's lost in the darkness, fading away._

_I'm still around here, screaming her name._

_She's haunting my dreamworld, trying to survive._

_My heart is frozen; I'm losing my mind._

_Help me, I'm buried alive!_

_Buried alive._

_**~Within Temptation, Lost**_

* * *

><p>I go home that day dazed, lost, and confused. My world has been scrambled, and I'm not sure about anything or anyone anymore. How to feel about Naomi's death. Jonathan. Mom. Falcone. Don. Even myself.<p>

You know, maybe I had it all coming to me somehow. As karma. For all my failures and insecurities and vanities. Or maybe it was going to happen anyway. There are so many beliefs and ideas about the world now.

As can be expected, I'm laying on my bed, draped across it like a loathsome rag doll. And all these thoughts swirl through my brain like a hurricane.

_I need to find acceptance…forgiveness… What does one feel when one doesn't know how to feel? _My guilt is a burden. One that I don't carry proudly.

To everyone else, it's just another student death. But not regular one. Most students aren't murdered, and most don't have their bodies slung all over the parking lot. A new experience for all.

I close my eyes, and the nightmarish images flash behind closed lids. With a shudder, I open them again.

I will get no sleep tonight.

Not knowing how to feel about something doesn't mean that you don't care. I realized this a few hours ago. One step closer to putting my actual thoughts into words. Closer to a solution. Much closer.

I stare at the ceiling above me. Is this how my night will pass? With jumbled thoughts and emotions? With the past days' events running through my head? If so, it's going to be a very long night.

_Where did I screw up?_ I ask myself. Obviously, trying to fight back against the Mob counted against me. Buddying up to Naomi and going out with her friends that night gave Falcone a target to hurt me with. Attempting to solve all my problems on my own with no help from the outside shows that I'm either anti-social or wanting to protect everyone.

I pause my thinking. There's a lot of mess-ups here. Making brash decisions…not being open to advice from others… Taking on the Mob, once again, way up on the list. Not letting Jonathan in.

_Oh, shit. Oh, Jonathan…_

This isn't a pity session. I don't want sympathy. I'm merely following Jon's example and dissecting myself through the night here while I fail to get sleep. _Crap. He's "Jon" in my head again?_

_And what exactly had our last interaction been about? What even happened? Oh Ames, there is so much wrong with you…_

I find this oddly humorous. I never claimed to be perfect, though I may sometimes see myself that way. These thoughts…simply allowing my mind to wander…is an eye-opening experience.

It's a sickening thought, but the death is helping me, in a way. The self-hate is still there. The self-anger is still existent. I doubt that the guilt, no matter what I do, will truly ever go away. It's like attempting to replace nightmares with sweet dreams.

_Ames…you can't go through this alone. You need to let others in. But so far, you've hurt anyone who's tried._

Exactly. I'm sure Mom wants to renew our relationship, but I keep shoving her back. Maybe _I_ need to take the initiative for once. Do I truly believe that no one will care or understand what I'm going through? Are my views of the world really that dark and twisted? That I think I'm so worthless?

And Jonathan…look at his problems! How can I expect _him_ to _not_ know how it feels to be without hope? I pushed him away again, refusing his offers of help. And he had been reduced to using force, in his own way, to help me. He got those feelings out.

He got under my skin, made me realize how cruel the world can truly be. By using his himself as an example. An excellent one. He played every doubt in my head, every feeling that lingered close to home. And for the better of my health, he'd made me explode, allowing all that roiling steam to escape.

Jonathan cares for me. Truly does, in his own way.

Would he have tried so hard otherwise?

The idea warms me, true or not, and for the first time in about a week, I genuinely smile. Even now, I can draw small comfort from him.

Brilliant boy. What a psychiatrist he'll make someday.

I should tell him this. Honest and upfront. But first, I need to figure out what I actually _did_ when we spoke. I yelled at him first, whispered last. Admitted I couldn't handle him in my head, or reality shoved in my face. Realized just how skilled he was and how much he knew about the inner workings of my mind already. Most disturbingly, how _easily_ he got in there.

Then, little by little, dropping hints about fear and lowly beings. I'd been scared off, like the coward I am, more than anything.

_He's been holding back on me,_ I think, turning on my side and burying the side of my face into my pillow. If Jonathan truly wanted to, he could turn me inside out and throw everything about me, all of it, back in my face. _That_ I wouldn't be able to handle. Jonathan running a personality profile on me doesn't exactly sound ideal.

But then again, maybe I need that. You can't really know. Sometimes, a healthy dose of reality is all you need. Like a death.

I'm closer to acceptance. But not close enough. And now, I may-or-may-not-have broken off my friendship with Jonathan. How can I ask for a personality profile when we—I—had left off on such a bad note?

Ugh. Apologizing. I need to swallow my pride and let go of the past. I can let go of Jonathan's comments and manipulation and his worming his merry way inside my head without permission. That…maybe I can do.

I snort. _Forgiveness…"letting go."_ Even I have my limits about that. For example, after all that's happened, how can I just "let go" of my family's and my past with Falcone and the Mob? So many unresolved issues, and the fact that the chance that I'll never see Dad again is pretty high. Still believing he's alive as well. There is so much there… Even if I can "let it go", how can Falcone? Lord knows he won't leave me alone.

Unless someone really gets to him. Unless he suddenly has bigger things to worry about. And I have absolutely no control over that stuff.

I roll onto my other side. _How and when did life get so complicated? I can't even remember what it was like to be a carefree child. Was I ever?_ I sigh.

The way I'm seeing things…the only way I'll avoid tremendous problems in the future is if I change. _I need to change._

I need to be more grounded, more realistic. More accepting of the fact that others can help me. I need to grow up. Mature. Be an adult, be responsible for my actions, and realize that every action, bone-headed or wise, has a motive _and_ a consequence. I need to be balanced and less haphazard. Calmer, thinking things through. Forget childish dreams.

I need to be more like…Jonathan. I smile wryly once more.

I know that these goals I've set for myself and changes won't happen overnight. Maybe not even over multiple nights. It's a slow process. Braiding and taming frayed nerves and confused feelings and inconsistent personality traits into one smooth rope is going to take some time.

On the edge of being content but still plagued by ghosts, I sit up wearily and glance at my old alarm clock on the desk across the room. It's only a minute after midnight. And I haven't even yawned yet.

_Now that that's figured out…sorta. _I sigh again and plop my upper half back down. Time to stop dwelling on the past and present and focus on the future. Namely, later today…the funeral.

The service is at ten, with the burial after. I've decided that I'm going. I owe Naomi that much. And her poor family. No father, come to find out. Just her mother and younger sister.

Flowers. I should buy them flowers. I need to do _something_ for them. A way to apologize for my failures, if you will. The family doesn't know details, like my involvement, but I have to pay some sort of respect to them. Hopefully, they won't know why.

But this means… This means I'll have to get up earlier. Two and a half hours earlier. And which kind to purchase, on top of it all?

I groan at the fact that I still haven't fallen asleep. I _need_ sleep, but it always seems so unwilling to come… Maybe I'm a born night owl. Or an insomniac. But the feeling of hours ticking away before my eyes is awful. Especially when they are essential to you.

_What would Jonathan think?_ I wonder, wincing. A while later, I look at my clock again. Twelve thirty-seven. Grand. I have to find something appropriate to wear tomorrow as well. _Oh dear…_

Mom doesn't know Naomi's family that well, so she won't be going to the service with me. But that's all right. Because tomorrow, I know for sure that I will cry. An end. It will all come out again.

_Ames, honey, you're confusing yourself again. _I scold. _You've got the basest things figured out. Let tomorrow come as it may. When you overthink things, you plan ahead. When you plan ahead, you make foolish, rash decisions. Stop now._

_Okay. Sleep. Try for sleep. Strive for it. You _need_ this._

I try. I calm myself down internally and externally, and I run old lullabies through my head, from when Mom used to sing to me. The whole time, I keep Jonathan's face in my mind. He helps may stay down to earth, grounded.

I close my eyes, exhale, and hum a familiar melody. _There is no pain; you are receding. A distant ship's smoke on the horizon. You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move, but I can't hear what you're saying…_

If only Jonathan was with me. In spite of his words, I'd feel better if he was by my side tomorrow. Whether I can make myself believe it or not, I need support.

_When I was a child, I had a fever. My hands felt just like two balloons. Now I've got that feeling once again. I can't explain; you would not understand. This is not how I am._

_I have become comfortably numb._

I think I do manage to nod off a couple of times, because morning comes faster than I thought it would. Since we're well into fall, there is no light to greet me. Just a faint dusting, I notice as I stagger up and look out the window, of orange about the horizon.

"I left my window open," I muse aloud. And the early chirping of birds is coming through it. Grimacing, I shut the window with a snarl. Only then do I realize that my alarm clock is still going off, an annoying whine in my ear.

Moving stiffly across the room, I slap a hand down on it, and the thing finally shuts up. I also feel drained; it's almost as if all that thinking sucked me dry of energy.

I look down at my clock and rub my eyes. Seven thirty. Exactly. I should go.

I've given it a lot of thought; I'm actually planning on going to a more expensive floral shop. So I need to hack into the savings stash I've got in one of my top drawers. And I shouldn't have a problem pulling something black out of my closet…

Ten minutes later, I emerge downstairs in a black turtleneck sweater, a knee-length skirt matching in color, and my leather boots. Bushy hair back in a scrunchie. I hope this works.

Mom isn't awake yet. Though she knows well enough where I'm going later, I leave with the feeling that I'm sneaking out of the house without permission.

I throw my twenty in the passenger's seat. I've actually never bought flowers for anyone before, so I'm praying that I have enough. I'd hate to be disappointed.

_Just don't think about all of last night's stuff while you're driving. It's a distraction. _Or maybe I don't want to have to face it all again. My grip on Black Jack's steering wheel tightens.

I don't think I've ever been deep in Gotham this early in the morning before. And is it always so busy? Or maybe it's because I feel sluggish from a lack of sleep.

Blinking at the lines of cars in front of me, I rub my eyes with a hand and yawn for the hundredth time. The light of dawn is _just_ about ready to peep through the skyline, but at the same time, I can tell it'll be another gray day. And chillier than usual.

Great for a funeral.

This upper part of Gotham is a lot nicer… I've never been up here before. But if I want a good flower shop, I need to be in the good part of the city. High-class.

There are more stoplights here, and it's cleaner. More shops as well. But the crappy parking and limited number of spaces hasn't changed.

I happen upon a street that has the shop I'm looking for, but am forced to park down the street. Walking again.

The sweet aromas assault my nose as soon as I open the door. Before I go in, I swear I see a movement behind me out of the corner of my eyes, but convince myself that it's just my imagination.

The clean-cut lady at the counter looks up at me over her horn-rimmed glasses at my entrances. She has big makeup and big hair. She seems about ready to speak, but sees my all-black garb, and nods.

_Be social,_ I tell myself. I give her a tiny, grateful smile, and busy myself in looking at the different flower arrangements on display. But I have no idea what I'm looking for. I even venture into one of the coolers and come out shivering through my sweater.

Not for the first time in my life, I find myself rather at a loss of what to do. So I take the logical option and scan through everything again.

Finally, I go into the cooler once more and pick out six, long-stemmed roses. Red. They always seem to be appropriate for any occasion. Being careful of the thorns, I step out of the coldness and bring my selection up to the counter.

The woman (Sally, I read from her nametag) looks them over. "Would you like them wrapped? Want to fill out a card?"

I glance above her to the clock on the wall. Eight thirty. Who knew floral stores were open this early? "Yes, please," I tell her vacantly. "And, no thank you." She brings out a shiny sheet of plastic and then a sheet of bright pink tissue paper. I blink at it. "Um, it's for a funeral," I say softly.

Sally freezes. "I'm sorry, hun," she apologizes. Under my guidance, she wraps the roses in black and white tissue paper instead and staples the top shut for good measure. Cradling the bouquet of roses, greens, and baby's breath in one arm like a precious, fragile parcel, I fork over the bill in my hand and tell her to keep the scarce change.

"Have a nice day, sweetie," Sally wishes me as I leave the shop.

The door swings shut behind me, and in that moment, the roses hugged to my chest, I decide to step aside and rest against the wall space next to the door. I just need a…pause. To gather myself. These emotions are starting to well up again. With the purchase of the roses. I'm sure that's what's causing this upset.

I lean back, tilt my head up, and close my eyes. The only sounds are the cars whizzing by.

"That's a little eerie, seeing you here," a familiar voice tells me out of the blue.

I jump a foot in the air. And look to my right. "You!" I exclaim upon sighting the bright green wind jacket.

The riddling boy grins. "Me. Funny, when we met last, it was at a different time and place in the city." He's matched my relaxed stance against the wall, arms folded. Copying me.

I'm still gaping in astonishment at seeing this strange guy again. Who knew? "Yeah, this is weird. As long as you didn't follow me or anything."

He shakes his head. "Nope." I don't know anything about him. Like, if he's homeless. He might be, seeing that he's wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw him. He could be a runaway as well. I decide it's none of my business to pry.

I'm strangely elated at seeing him again. The memory flashes. "So, um, how'd the protest turn out?" I ask lamely, forgetting what's ahead of me.

The riddling boy shrugs. "We made our point." I'm not sure what that had been about to begin with.

"Oh." Unknowingly, I clutch the bouquet of roses closer to my chest. The plastic wrapping crinkles loudly.

At the noise, he glances at the parcel in my hands. And smiles again. "What're those for?" he asks mischievously. "Your boyfriend?" He waggles his eyebrows up and down.

I resist the urge to snort and instead choose to respond flatly. "A friend's funeral. Murder victim." _Strangled,_ I want to add.

The impish grin slides right off his friendly face, and his lips form a distinct "o."

I cast my gaze to the ground.

He clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. I shrug, not sure of what to say or feel at this particular moment. What _can_ you say to that?

I stare at my parcel. Red, black, and white. "It's my fault," I add as an afterthought. "She's dead because of me." And I've managed to say it out loud to a complete stranger. An improvement.

His mouth falls open even more. "Oh," he says, copying my earlier response. He doesn't inquire any further. Something tells me this fellow is a bit of a sweetheart on the inside, despite his outward wittiness.

I raise an eyebrow. "But I guess things are getting better." I brighten, forcing myself to do so. This boy…a sad expression doesn't look right on his face. He shouldn't be forced to carry my mood. My lips quirk upward.

To my surprise, he moves from his position on the other side of the door to stand next to me. And rakes his eyes over my facial expression. "There. There you go. Much better."

I tilt my head in confusion at his words and at his sudden proximity. "What?"

He raises his hands, palms up. "I don't know. Both times I've seen you, you've always been glum." A sigh. "A happy expression looks good on you. You need to cheer up. Smile more."

I can't help it—I do just that. And chuckle. "That sounds nice. I think I will."

"Maybe I can help with that." The riddling boy smiles at me again, the cheerful gleam back in his eyes.

Already knowing the answer, I wrinkle my nose at him. "How?" I've got a feeling…

"Wanna hear a riddle?" There it is.

This time, I flat out say it. "Yes."

"They're new ones, I swear…" He rubs his hands together. "All right. Riddle me this: I'm where yesterday follows today, and tomorrow's in the middle."

That's all he gives me. A statement, not a question. Grateful for the distraction, I think. Hard. I'm actually trying to solve it now…I want to laugh at myself. These random encounters are good for me.

"Give up?" he asks.

Shoot. I nod.

"A dictionary!"

I shake my head at him, suppressing an eye roll.

"One more?" he practically pleads, all but getting down on his knees. "It's easier; I promise you."

How can I say no to that? Keeping a hold on my flowers, I throw one hand up in surrender. "Sure. What the hell?" I'm partly amused, partly exasperated by his insistence. I wonder…I hope he knows the difference between jokes and riddles. And here we go…

"Riddle me this: What do you fill with empty hands?" He stares at me expectantly.

_This is going to be another one of those obvious ones, isn't it? _I want to ask. I probably look like an idiot to him. Oh, well. I close my eyes, try my best, and give up after thirty seconds. "You got me," I sigh. "What is it?"

He claps his hands in delight. "If the answer doesn't fit, you must not quit!" he crows. Great, he rhymes too. And waits for me again. Not appreciating looking like a fool, I narrow my eyes. He backs off and gives the answer. "It's gloves."

I facepalm.

He laughs loudly. "Don't worry. It's okay."

I unwillingly smile. "Will I ever be able to solve them?"

Snickering, he responds with triumph, "No one has."

So I'm not the first. "Hm."

"It's a talent."

I "hm" again, and then I get a heavy feeling around one of my wrists. Dad's watch. The time! It's been at the back of my awareness. Holding the roses tightly, I lift my wrist to eyelevel and stare at the black watch face. Five after nine. Crap.

The riddling boy looks on in confusion. "What is it?" he asks, seeing my alarmed face.

I drop my arm. "The funeral," I explain. "I'm sorry, but I have to go." _Even if I want to stay…_ I almost add.

He looks disappointed. "That's too bad. I'll miss you."

We just met! Squashing my surprise at that, I pat his green-jacketed shoulder. "It'll be fine; I'm sure I'll run into you again. I really gotta go…"

His expression is similar to one of a kicked puppy. Tearing my eyes away, I start walking down the sidewalk. " 'Bye!"

"Wait!" he calls out with a light voice. I turn around to find him running up to me with yet another smile. "Sorry, but I've just realized…I don't even know your name." He winks boyishly.

_Oh, is that all? _I think. Regardless, I offer him my hand. "I'm Ames."

He shakes it happily, vigorously. "Edward."

* * *

><p>I manage to find the church toward the edge of city. One of the smaller ones Gotham has. Standing before it, I'm amazed at how such a grand structure can make me feel so minuscule and insignificant in its shadow.<p>

I gaze up at it, swallow, and use my roses to steel myself. At the same time, I take note of the yellow school bus parked against the curb. I'm assuming it's for the students who show, to ride to the burial.

Ten minutes 'til the service starts. I enter and take seat in one of the pews toward the back. Not with my class. Simply by myself. I feel so out of place…

I wasn't raised to be religious; that's all I'm going to say on the matter. However, I admire the stained glass windows, the architecture, the statues…amazing. So foreign, their meanings to me.

A sea of black in front of me. Myself, a small speck in the back.

I place my roses beside me, not sure when to give them away.

Notes of an organ (from somewhere I can't see) bid us rise. I watch the procession of the casket, the religious, and the family go by. Tears, already, from some. But not from me. Everyone's heads turn in unison to follow the line down the center aisle.

The service goes by pretty much as I'd expected it to. "Amazing Grace" is sung at one point, family members rise to the podium, as well as a few friends, to talk about Naomi. However, this is a service and not a funeral mass, so there is no Communion. I'm grateful.

It seems to go by so quickly. The priest talks some more and gives a blessing. And then it's over. More music, and the recessional.

After the parade goes past, I gather my bouquet and escape through one of the side doors to avoid classmates and family members. Being in the back, they would've awkwardly been following me out. And I would've been awkwardly leading.

The sky is gray but lit.

I make my way around the side of the marvelous building and find myself trailing the group.

Tears and silence. Girls, with their smeared mascara and blotchy skin. Boys, strong and quiet, sorrow etched onto every line of every face. Suddenly, it seems as though we have all aged twenty years. Grown up some.

It's chilly.

Judging by the size of our group, I'd be willing to say that at least half (a hundred) of us have showed up. But then I see that another half are leaving on their own or with parents. Seems only about fifty of us are going to the burial.

Jonathan didn't show, either. As expected and presumed.

I watch a discarded Kleenex ghost along the ground beside me. The starched white contrasts with dried grass.

A few teachers are here as well, and they are now ushering our smaller group toward the bus that'll take us out to the cemetery.

As I board, and as I pick a seat in the middle and sit down alone, I'm still not sure what to feel. My classmates are comforting each other, but I'm solitary. By myself. As it should be. As I deserve. It also seems like no one has noticed my presence. And I find that I don't mind.

It's only about a bumpy, fifteen minute trip (good thing too, because buses make me queasy). I stand up, relieved, and wait for my turn to jump into the steady line winding out of the bus.

Kelly catches my eyes with her green ones and smiles at the roses in my arms when she goes by. I get in line behind her curvy figure. I feel like I've been welcomed in. So I stand by her during the burial, because I sense that's where my place is today.

We all gather around the freshly dug grave and watch as the casket is lowered in. I shiver.

The preacher speaks. Family and friends say a few things. I remain silent, standing over the grave, looking down on the black casket in that deep, deep hole. And think. It's hitting me hard.

_This _is the consequence of my actions. _This_ happened because of me. _Face this, Ames. Look down upon it. Take it in. Remember._

Yes, I most definitely need to change.

And it's right then and there, for some unexplainable reason, that a miracle happens.

I begin to cry. To grieve. To properly mourn.

I press a hand to my mouth as the tears of sorrow roll down my cheeks and as my body is wracked with silent sobs. _This one time…I hope._

I suppose I'll just have to find out.

Beside me, Kelly wraps an arm around my shoulders, comforting and supporting me like the nice girl she is. Unable to help myself, I lean into the comfy side of my classmate. _This one time…_ I shouldn't have judged her. Not an airhead…just all heart.

I am growing. Learning.

We turn away as the dirt begins to rain down in clods into the grave and onto the casket. Should be done with a little more respect. I sniff. My tears haven't stopped, but I'm not sobbing anymore. At least it isn't raining; that's a bonus I shall take.

Kelly and I are almost to the bus when I realize one thing.

I'm still holding the roses. And Naomi's family is still around the grave, watching their daughter, cousin, and niece be buried fully. "Go ahead," I tell Kelly, before heading back in the other direction.

This is going to be the hardest thing I'll ever do. I wear all my sympathy, pity, and sadness on my face in one emotional mask.

I approach them hesitantly, one step at a time, with my brain moving at top speed to figure out what to do and what to say.

The shovels are still going. The dirt is still falling.

Biting my lip, I walk up to the woman whom I think is Naomi's mother. It has to be; she looks just like her daughter did. And the little girl, no more than ten years old, gripping her hand. No father. This is a huge indicator that I have the right woman.

Her mother watches me approach with enormous dark eyes and tearstained cheeks.

The grass crunches underfoot before I stop in front of her. And offer my roses. "I'm so sorry for your loss," I finally say. So quietly, it's barely above a whisper.

Naomi's mother reaches out her brown hands and takes the bouquet. "Thank you, Ames," she says hoarsely. Turning to the little girl, she pats her small back to get her attention. "Whitney, look at the beautiful flowers."

Naomi's sister pulls her dry face out of her mother's coat, stares at the roses, and then stares at me. Hard. Penetrating like. I don't want to look at her, to see her face. Because I know what I will find. And when I finally do, it's what I've expected to see.

She is Naomi's twin. Even more so than her mother. The resemblance is striking. Scary. Eerie. Deeply unsettling.

And the way she's looking at me! As if she knows all… I swallow the lump in my throat, filled with the impulse to let everything spill. To tell Whitney and her mother why this happened, how this happened, and who caused this.

_Me!_ I want to yell, because they deserve to know._ Because of me, me, me, me!_

But instead, I hold my peace and stare at the ground. "I'm sorry," I choke out. Then I turn and leave them behind me, walking for the bus.

I feel…relieved. Like a weight has been lifted off my chest. _I needed that. It helped me._

When I get onboard the bus, I've lost my original spot, and every other one is full. Then there's Kelly, who's by herself. She gives me a white, encouraging smile.

I weakly smile back and go to take my seat next to her.

* * *

><p>Dead tired, I enter my house at approximately one-thirty. Once again, I've been drained of all my energy juices. My brain has fizzled out. Mom isn't home, but that doesn't appeal to me as it has before. Simply because I need to presence of another human being now.<p>

Until then, I need a nap.

I drag myself up the stairs and through the hallway, stumbling into my room a few seconds later. I'm more tired than I thought. I peel off my funeral garb and pull on a large t-shirt before collapsing onto my bed.

_Put your thoughts away._ I struggle but manage to do it, and force myself to relax each part of my body. All of last night's contemplation is hitting me hard; I can barely keep my head up.

_Mom…when you get home…I'll try. Try to see your side. Try to put my grudge behind me. And try to reconnect._

My reasons? You only live once, and life is short. Naomi's death brought that to my attention.

I can still see her face. In her little sister .Whitney. I hope I never see her again.

To my shock, I wake up almost five hours later to the slamming of our front door. I'd fallen asleep without realizing it. Astounding, how much time can go by when you're not conscious to comprehend it.

My door is open. I hear movement below. Mom's home, and from the sound of it, going into the living room to take up residence on the couch. Usually signifies a stressful appointment and picky clients.

I lay in bed for fifteen more minutes (procrastinating, really), but now I'm wide awake.

It's just…I'm not sure how to go about repairing a damaged relationship. Certainly not one like ours, wracked with lies and distrust and hurt feelings. And a dark past.

I'll admit, I'm not usually one to swallow my pride and apologize, admitting I'm wrong, especially if I feel like I'm the one who's been wronged. Maybe—I'm sure of it—this is the case that will call for exactly that.

If there's one thing I've inherited from my mother, it's her pride. She won't be the first to admit her wrongs, and neither will I.

Except this one time. I will _try._ As much as I have previously claimed to have _not_ wanted to fix this…I do. And hopefully, I'll learn some new things along the way.

It takes all my drive to haul myself out of bed and down the stairs, so slowly, taking one at a time. In the dining room now, it's completely dark, except for a faint glow of light coming from the living room. I casually glance out a window.

Black, except for the light in our yard. I tend to forget that at this time of year, the days become shorter, and the nights become longer. There is something a little unsettling about it. I turn my head away.

Mom is sitting on the couch when I enter. She doesn't hear me come in, being so engrossed in a Mary Higgins Clark novel, legs pulled up on the couch beside her, still in her suit from today. Her normal, beautiful self. It's hard to believe she's in her early forties.

I forget all my doubts and pause a bit uncomfortably, only to consider and think through my next move.

With a firm resolve, I approach the couch. Mom ignores me. That is, until I sit down and curl up against her side. She automatically stiffens.

I don't blame her; I haven't done it since I was a child. But she doesn't pull away, even though my behavior must be _very_ strange to her now, after our distance. I feel smaller, pressed up to her like this.

I stay still and pray she won't get up and leave the room after my intrusion. Maybe I can try to convey what I'm thinking and feeling… I allow myself to rest my heavy head on her shoulder.

And then I get my second miracle of the day. Mom softens, sets her book aside, and takes me into her arms. I could say she's reading my mind. Or maybe, all along, she's wanted to reconnect with me as well.

This is odd. Odd but nice.

_Well, you have a heart, Ames. Quit trying to hide it._

A death does funny things. Uniting people, if but temporarily, is one of them.

I feel warm and decide to speak first. "Mom, I…" I exhale. "I'm sorry. For everything. For everything I've said, and any, um, grudges I've held against you." I fidget, trying to think. This apology sounds terrifically lame; I can't even remember all I've done to hurt her. It _is_ hard to shove your pride back down your throat. "I'm sorry that I didn't try to understand your side or see things your way. It was wrong to be so angry with you. I'm sorry for being a brat."

Mom breaks the ensuing silence. "No, I'm sorry. You had every right to be. You were threatened by Falcone, and you didn't know the full story enough to know why." One of her hands plays with my disheveled ponytail. "I shouldn't have kept my past from you. I should've known that you were mature enough to handle it. And for that, I apologize. Back then, I don't even remember why I got involved in all that. Other than that I was desperate."

_But obviously, I _wasn't_ mature enough to handle it._

Silence, broken by the ticking of the clock on the wall. A beat. "I forgive you," we both say at the same time. And laugh softly.

I snuggle deeper into her. "I'll try to be different."

Her fingers move from my hair to my arm, and they drum a rhythm there. "And no more holding things back or keeping secrets."

Inwardly, I grimace at that. "I'll try." _No promises there._

"Good," Mom says, before sighing. "Then I'll begin by telling you a little more about me back then. So, what exactly did Carm—I mean Falcone—tell you about me?"

I explain the romance and soon-to-be engagement and the possibility of children.

She has a good laugh at that, wiping her eyes after the fit subsides. "Oh, good lord, what a liar. I was nothing more to him than another one of his whores. He never actually _loved_ me, and he certainly doesn't now."

_Makes sense… _I frown. _But then…_ "So why'd you stay with him for so long, if he didn't treat you special?"

At that question, Mom removes herself from me, leaning forward and swinging her legs off the couch to put her face in her hands. It alarms me. "Ames, honey, I've never claimed to be perfect; I went to dark places when I was younger. Falcone provided me with a home, money, and…a-and drugs." She lifts her head up. "I couldn't leave him, because I needed, depended on, _craved_ those damn things. And he gave them easily, if I stayed."

_My mom was a druggie, _I think in bewilderment. _Um, I'm not sure how to feel about this…_

She sees my expression, and, looking horrified, rushes to explain herself. "But then Damian, your father, came along, and I fell hard for him. I _changed,_ because of him. _For_ him. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. A good man. Desperate, but good."

_She was on drugs… _It hits me, and I start to shake, my face draining of all color. "Mom…" I croak. My voice is panicked. _I'm _panicked. Scared. Terrified.

"Oh, Ames! I'm sorry!" She takes me into her arms again, but I stay limp. "I was clean by the time I had you, I swear on my life!"

I want to be calmed by this; I really do. But see, that seed of doubt is still there. I can't get rid of it. She's lied to me before about a serious matter, to protect me; who's to say she wouldn't do it again?

For the moment, I choose to believe her. If there's an aspect or a part of me that's screwed up because of her mistakes, then so be it. Let it stay covered for a little while longer.

"I'm not sure what to say," I tell her, voice tiny. _That,_ at least, is the truth.

"You don't have to say anything," she soothes me.

I think a bit more, but I have one more question. "So if Falcone's not in love with you, why does he have it out for me? For us?"

"Falcone is vain, sweetie. He also likes to be control of everything and everyone." She smiles a bit fondly, before stating, "Your father slipped that control. Showed that the Mob could be crossed, could be fooled, without consequences. That Falcone could be outsmarted. I'm not even sure how he did it. Once Falcone's rivals heard about it, he had an onslaught of problems. Every gangster around was trying to get into his weak spots. So he went after Damian."

And now we're at that memory from the night of my twelfth birthday.

"What does all that have to do with me? Why am I being targeted?" She can tell me; she was at his side once.

"Simple, Ames." Mom stands up, turns around, and faces me. "You look exactly like your father. To Falcone, you're an unpleasant reminder of the past. Living proof that Damian got away with it. I don't know if that's his exact reasoning, but it's damn close."

_Well, no one ever said life was fair… Eh, genetics really _are_ a bitch._ I see her exiting the living room, off to do something else more important. _Shouldn't she be protecting her daughter?_ One last question springs forth from the back of my mind, and I call out to her. "Mom, what was I like as a child?"

She smiles at me, eyes lit with memories. "You had less contempt for the world. You were a spunky little thing with a brave mind and a good heart." She leaves me in dark, brewing thought, throwing one last sentence over her shoulder. "And you always used to say how much you wanted to save everyone."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: God, I really hope that session between ****Ames**** and her mom was believable . It can be changed… This chapter meant a lot to me. From now on, because of these past events, ****Ames**** is going to be more mature, a little more consistent in character. It needed to happen.**

**BEFORE I SAY ANYTHING ELSE I HAVE SOMETHING TO ASK OF YOU. There is currently a petition going around petitioning _People _magazine to make Tom Hiddleston "Sexiest Man Alive" for 2012… Link below (no spaces). Sign it? Pretty please? With sugar and a cherry on top?  
><strong>gopetition petitions/tom-hiddleston-for-people-magazine %E2%80%99s-2012-%E2%80%9Csexiest. html

**Next item of importance, I have put up a POLL on my profile. I'd like you guys to have a little more say in what happens in this story. Majority rules, so to speak. I will be putting more of these. So this one is about the Mob situation. To be truthful, I've been having doubts about that storyline, and am thinking of a way for it to be put in the past. For now (it will resurface later). So, who should deal with it? I'll explain the choice. First of all, ****Ames**** and Jonathan will obviously be involved with them in the future, so those aren't really up. Now, having Jonathan deal with the situation in any way will clear a path for him and Falcone's business deal later. If he does it in HIGH SCHOOL, YOU GUYS will give me insight on how to make that work and seem realistic. Whether it's scaring Don shitless with some fear concoction made _this soon in the story_ as a warning to leave ****Ames**** alone_, _or making a deal with Falcone, you spill the ideas. As for ****Ames**** dealing with the problem in high school, I was seriously thinking about her making a contract with Falcone of sorts. I also wanted her to watch Don die, but don't know how that would work out. GIVE ME SUGGESTIONS! So, who should fix this? ****Ames**** or Jonathan? And when? I'll give you a warning in a future author's note before I take the poll down, but get your votes in while you still can. At this point, you guys are kinda determining the outcome. I hope that made sense…**

**Can YOU answer any of ****Ames****' questions? Did anything strike you? Any line? Authors love it when specific parts of their work is pointed out. Leave a review, and I'll get back to you! Guys, all the praise is wonderful. But to better myself and to better this story, don't be afraid to leave constructive criticism. DO NOT FLAME, but feel free to point out anything that's bugging you. I'm not going to rip you to shreds because of a correction; I may even print out said review and place it next to my laptop.**

**If you love instrumental fantasy music, check out Nox Arcana. They are worth the listen!**

**Question of the Day: What's the weirdest movie title you've come across?**

**And oh yeah…_The Dark Knight Rises._ 19. More. Days. I can't even imagine waking up the day of and knowing that I'll be seeing it later…GAH! *crosses fingers for the Scarecrow cameo rumor to be true* Thanks god it's a 2 hour and 40 some minute movie.**

**Don't fave n' run. I'm watching you. 'Til next time, loves!**


	27. Hurry Up, We're Dreaming

**A/N: Late again. Yah, I know. I guess I ended up lying to some of you about what time I'd have this up. My apologies. I just realized the other day that I've been writing this lovely story for over a year. WOW.**

**This chapter is going to be a bit lighter than the last one. For our sanities. It does start of slowly though. No lie. Some parts are kinda jerky.**

**HOLY REVIEWS, BATMAN! Thanks to **Marzipan, Cottonxmouthx, Guest, LostSamurai, Guest, Morgan97, nXn, England101, Knightrunner, My Beautiful Ending, Glister, Indigo Scrawl, Miss Magenta Lestrange, pourquoibella, Anonymous, linnie kinda spinnie, LittleMissAngel, darkdeadmau5, SteveandSienna, Comidia Del Arte, Invisible-Ayla, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, SombodyStandingThere, MyFeetWon'tTouchTheGround, Hench-Girl95, TonightWeDieRomantic, BANEHiwatari, Arlena4815162342, **and **SladeRavenFan **for the reviews. Gratitude also goes to those who added me to faves/alerts! You people help feed the obsession that is this story.**

**ANONYMOUS REVIEWERS, LET ME LOVE YOUUUUU! I get so much good feedback, and you ask so many good questions. So I guess I have to respond to you below here.**

Guest (Zeny)**: Did Nolan confirm the Scarecrow's appearance in the movie? Maybe it was for _The Dark Knight _instead. If he did for this movie, I'm sure more of the fangirls would know, and more would be going nuts. Your second statement kinda confirms my doubts. Nolan actually dismissed the rumor of using unused footage of Heath Ledger as the Joker. He said it would be disrespectful. In fact, in an Entertainment Weekly interview out this past week, Nolan says that no one even mentions the Joker in the third film. I hope I don't sound like I'm contradicting you. But I appreciate you dropping by and leaving thoughts! Some great feedback came from you. And as for Jonathan kissing ****Ames****, well, we'll have to see about that, won't we? ;) A long wait is ahead, my friend. And I actually wanted to see _Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter._**

Cottonxmouthx:** I'm so glad you like her name! It's French, and it just happens to mean "friend." And I got it from a TV show called _Human Target_. The show's been cancelled since then (I watched it for Jackie Earle Haley's badassery). But there was a thief on there who joined their corporation, named ****Ames****. She became that actor's partner. She was gorgeous and mischievous and annoying as hell…but I loved her. And her name stuck. That's really all there is to it.**

**And to others who have doubts about this story. No one's forcing you to read it. Just saying.**

**Weirdest move title I've ever heard of? I came across one called _Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death. _I'm serious. Haven't seen it.**

**Disclaimer: Do I seriously have to go over this again? Me no own. You no sue. We all happy. Vultures…**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Seven: Hurry Up, We're Dreaming<strong>

_Waiting in a car.  
><em>_  
>Waiting for a ride in the dark.<em>

_The night city grows._

_Look and see her eyes, they glow._

_**~M83, Midnight City**_

* * *

><p>There's a soft knocking on my bedroom door the next morning. I stir groggily and swipe a hand across my eyes. "Whazat?" I slur. What a weird dream…<p>

"Ames?" It's Mom. "I'm sure you've already made up your mind, but it's seven-thirty now. Are you going to school today? You should."

_Seven-thirty? _I wonder stupidly. _But I'm so tired… _I need another day off, so I make my decision in an instant. I muster up the strength to summon up my voice. "No," I croak. "I'm not going. Can you call in for me?"

I'm sure Mom is disapproving, but she leaves it be, not wanting to cause any more hard feelings between us. _Whether she was telling the truth about the drugs or not though… _I put it out of my brain. _Enough._

You'd think becoming mature would include me wanting to go to school all the time. I guess I'm going to have relapses. But I'll try.

I repeat it. "Can you?"

On the other side of my door, Mom sighs. "Fine. I'll say the funeral left an impact, and you're taking it hard."

"Thanks." It comes out muffled against my pillow. _Senioritis is kicking in, _I add silently. _And it's only September._ I've got a long way to go. "Mom, when's your first appointment today?" _What do I do now?_ I also wonder. _Think some more? Nah. I did that yesterday._

"Nine-thirty," she responds. "But I'm leaving in an hour."

_All-righty. Sleep, _I decide. _I wish I had some of my schoolbooks home… _"Have fun," I tell Mom, rolling over. Something makes me glad she can't see me.

My door cracks open. I know this because I can hear it. Mom's voice comes through. "You going back to sleep?"

"Yep." Already starting to drift off. _You should think about the Mob situation later today, _I tell myself. My eyelids flutter shut.

I distantly hear Mom's footsteps in the hallway. And then… "I love you," she says.

My eyes snap open.

_Wow. Haven't heard that in a while…feels good, actually._ What is this strange warmth that's filling me? Filling my heart?

_You know, you'd probably feel even better if you said it back, _my conscience suggests. My conscience! That's a voice I haven't heard in a while. And though the words feel foreign to me, I say them anyway. "Love you, too."

I can't see Mom's smile, but I know that she has one on her face. _Step by step._

For some unexplainable reason, I wake up three hours later. "Well, there went half my day," I mutter, sitting upright in bed. I've got to work on getting up in time, for college.

College.

I frown, holding my head. I guess I should probably start applying for those, huh? Time to pay a trip to the guidance counselor's office. Tomorrow.

And I already know where I'm going, Gotham University. Keep it simple, and stay in this stinking city. Career, though? Not a freaking clue. Still. Time to grow up and get this figured out.

Tomorrow. Maybe.

_You can always ask Jonathan…_

Yeah. Jonathan. 'Bout that. How do I fix that situation? Well, I can always do what I did with Mom. Swallow my pride and admit that I've overreacted. Which I undoubtedly did. Yes, I will do this.

Tomorrow.

I'm a coward. Like I said, relapses. At least I'm not all the way back to base one.

My stomach roars at me, and I get the sick feeling of being hungry in the morning. All I need now is breakfast. And a shower to wash everything away.

Crawling out of bed, I stoop over and gather yesterday's black garments into my arms so I can chuck them into the basement later on.

Out in the hallway, I stop for a moment and stare out one of the windows. The sun is shining. Maybe I'll go outside today. Dance around the yard and sing like Jonathan said he saw me do on many occasions. Almost a year ago.

Yeah. Mature. Absolutely not. But I will go outside.

After deciding on breakfast, I lean against the kitchen counter with a slice of toast in hand, watching the morning news on the crappy mini television across the room.

It's the same old slew of robberies, murders, and disappearances. Some gobbledygook about politics and a new mayor and even Commissioner Loeb is shown making a "heartfelt" speech.

I yawn. Something about maintaining subway systems…

Gang rivalries at a high?

Wow. Should make business interesting for the Mob. Unfortunately, I'm only able to catch the last few seconds of the report, a little piece on how the number of drug busts has gone up for the Mafia in the past month. I cross the kitchen and switch off the television, slightly adjusting the antennae.

Hopefully, natural business problems like that will keep the likes of Falcone off my tail.

I feel a twinge of sadness. _Naomi… _I don't know what to do about this Mob situation anymore. Not sure what to think or feel, other than me wishing nothing ever happened.

What do I do? Avenge her? Swear myself to Falcone? Surrender? What can a high school student possibly do to get the Mob to leave her alone? What do I have to work with?

I don't know where to go from here. Unless they get threatened or distracted with more important manners… Naomi's death made me realize that I need to stop fighting back, lest someone else I care about or love get hurt. That would push me over the edge. I am so conflicted.

Or should I do nothing and let the torture continue, all the while maintaining the hope that eventually, I'll be forgotten?

Screw this.

_Jonathan would know; he always knows… _Right about that.

I give a frustrated sigh and go over to wipe a purple smear of jelly from the counter. It leaves my finger sticky. I lick it, and my tongue is assaulted with grape flavoring. Not good by itself.

Right. Shower.

I emerge thirty minutes later from the bathroom with a cloud of steam billowing out behind me. So good… I feel cleansed. Renewed. I wander into the living room and pull out clothes from the laundry basket that's been sitting in here for about a week. I hate putting them away.

After I change, I settle down on the floor in front of the TV, back resting against the couch. I _could _be doing schoolwork for all of today, but I have no books. So, old movie marathons it is.

I truly have no life. But luckily, high school is about over for me. Add college stuff to the stack of crap piling on top of my head.

My thumb flicks mindlessly against the remote. I manage to pick _Goodfellas_ out of the movie channels, and spend the next three hours drooling over Robert DeNiro. In addition to Anthony Hopkins, he's my other celebrity crush. I guess I go for the older men. The thought makes me laugh.

_What my classmates would think of me… _At this point, I decide I don't care. It won't matter in the future. Let them whisper about me, and me and Crane, all they want. Those girls are going to be stuck as cashiers in rundown grocery stores for the rest of their lives, working two jobs.

_Don't get all uppity, _I scold myself. _It's not like you have _your_ future figured out. _After I gave up acting and singing, I haven't been able to think of anything else I'd like to do as a career. Movie critic, maybe? I'll think on it.

With _Goodfellas_ over, I switch to a cooking channel and watch Julia Child.

I do go outside later on, but I don't do anything more than sit on the stone step and watch the rare car whiz by, going way too fast for a gravel road. All right, maybe I do hum myself a little tune now and then. But then I freeze and look around, as if someone might discover me doing it. I'm only out for a half hour, then I go back to the living room.

Julia Child marathons. Gotta love 'em.

I get some form of salvation around five-thirty. There's a structured knocking at my front door. I let it go for a bit, listening to it. Then I shut off the television, getting the oddest sensation of déjà vu. _I've been in this situation before. Please let it not be Falcone…_

I cross through the kitchen to the door, pulling it open.

In a way, the person behind it is worse than Falcone. _The five-thirty timing should've been a huge indicator._

It's Jonathan. And I barely see his face before reacting in very much the same way I did when he was last here in this situation about a year ago. I slam the door in his face.

Now back in the house, I chastise myself. _Coward. Face your problems. _I slowly turn myself around and open the door.

Crane is still there, face an unreadable mask except for a glint of amusement in his blue eyes. Yes, he is laughing at me. I flush. At least I'm wearing sweatpants and not a pair of panties this time.

I swallow. "Um…yes?" is all I can say. This is very, very awkward. Our last conversation is weighing heavily in both of our minds, for sure. I am very, very intimidated. _Be brave._

After a few moments of silence, Jonathan takes charge. "This isn't a social visit, Ames. Here." His smooth voice unnerves me, but I let my eyes fall on the stack of books in his elegant hands. Oh. Schoolwork. How kind. I stare at them, disbelieving.

I think I hear crickets chirping theatrically.

_Take them and apologize!_ my mind wails at me.

_What do I say? I don't know if I broke it off or not!_ A part of me still wants him to apologize first, but I know he won't, and I did overreact in the worst way. _Just take the books first._

Crane seems very amused by the whole situation as well. He's smirking now. Geez. "Thanks," I manage to squeeze out.

My heart thuds audibly in my chest. Before I can say anything else to make me look intelligent, I automatically look down at my torso, distracted by the sound of my own audible heartbeat. Aw crap. Can he hear that? Because I sure can.

I wonder what he's thinking, but I'm too afraid to ask.

His demeanor is so cold. "Are you all right, Ames?" He is mockingly uninterested. Almost like he's acting like nothing ever happened. Like he never said anything hard for me to hear. It's like we're merely acquaintances again.

_How is he even real? _I gape like a fish.

"My arms are tired. Take your books," he snaps, getting to the point. He's either really irritated or really enjoying this.

I jump to attention and grab them. He relaxes immediately as _The Great Gatsby _nearly slides off the top of the pile, and I throw my weight against the doorframe to stop the motion of its descent. Ugh. I see an assignment sheet tucked into one of the larger textbooks. I should be grateful that Jon (JONATHAN!) has actually delivered them after our spat.

More silence. More minutes of me staring at my feet with red cheeks. Why do I blush around him?

He needs to stop with this chilly, robotic appearance thing. It's inhuman.

I take a deep breath. _Be mature! Start a conversation! _And screw it up. "So Jonathan, was your day ice—I mean—nice?" I nearly smack myself in the forehead right then and there. _Freudian slip, Ames. Nice. He heard that. He won't let it go._

I sigh, wondering how many new troubles I've just brought on myself.

Crane's smirk can't possibly get any wider, and not for the first time, I wish he wasn't a psychology fanatic. My blush deepens as he calls me out. "A Freudian slip, Ames. You corrected yourself, but the first thing you said is what your mind really meant. What were you thinking about?"

_Oh god, he knows…_

"Umm…" This is so humiliating!

He raises his cocky eyebrows, smug and still smirking. If he'd show teeth, he'd be grinning. This is _almost_ out of character for him. "Ice? How did you come up with that? What on earth does that mean?" Every question drips with obvious sarcasm. He's either poking fun at me, or…or…I don't know what else.

"I have no idea," I mumble. I've been reduced to having the IQ of a salad bowl. Or at least, that's how I feel around him. _Clever little… Who are you kidding? You had it coming, dearie._

_Maybe, but he's not making it easy to apologize._

With his brain swirling full of knowledge that _he _mostly knows, Crane holds his head high and seems to gain a couple of feet in height. A superior being.

He might be frustrated by my lack of responses, because he asks, "Are you dumb and deaf?"

Some of my fire returns to me. I meet his eyes. "Ah…no," I state firmly.

"Good."

What does that mean? What do I make of that?

Great. We're staring each other down again. He's winning. I've got nothing on those laser-like eyes. Stunning, really, behind the glasses. And his freaking cheekbones are razor sharp, like they can pop through his skin.

I lick my lips. He's really intimidating… _Be mature! Apologize! _It's a repeating mantra in my head. I exhale. "Jonathan, I'm…" I falter. No relapses, dammit!

He fixes me with a polite, expectant glare. "Yes?" He actually _tucks_ long strands of greasy hair behind his ears. It's gross. And he folds his arms. His clothes look even baggier on him than usual.

Those eyes are _frying _my soul right now.

I lose my nerve. "Get a haircut," I blurt out instead, stepping back inside and shutting the door quite rudely in his face again.

I drop my books on the kitchen floor and rush to the dining room window so I can watch him leave and walk back to his house.

"Chickening out never solves anything! You blew your chance," I scold myself. "Way to go." I pull a chair from the table and up to the window and drop into it.

I never claimed to be perfect.

I also feel like a stalker.

Jonathan strolls straight-backed down our driveway and turns around to give my house a look. I hope to the stars that he doesn't see me in the window.

Then a familiar white car takes a sharp turn into our driveway. Susie, with Mom at the helm. She would've hit Jonathan if he wouldn't have twisted so gracefully out of the way.

Did I just scream? In fear? This kid is my weakness.

Mom slams on the brakes, a few moments too late. A delayed reaction. Crane gives her back window a pointed, bone-withering glare before striding furiously in the direction of his house. I'm really scoring points with him, aren't I?

He certainly isn't going to like my mother. And when did I decide they'd see each other?

_When she almost hit him with her car?_

I feel my doom coming in the form of the front door opening.

Mom gawps at my position by the window. I wince. There's a look of astonishment in her face as she tosses her keys onto the kitchen counter. She recognized him. Our families are neighbors, after all.

"Ames Manson, was that—?"

"Yes. Yes, it was," I say truthfully. To avoid any more questioning, I escape upstairs.

* * *

><p>Gotham's weather is whacked.<p>

I stare out the window of my novels class during fifth period. Sunny yesterday, chilly and gray with high speed winds today. Seriously, it could snow tonight, it's so cold.

Maybe the weather isn't something I should be focusing on during class. I stare at the tiny print of the book open before me and find myself unable to concentrate. Typical me. As much as I pride myself with being a barely-above-average student, I'm sometimes no different than any other lazy teenager.

My uppity former view of myself had clouded that. Crane has five times the amount of intelligence I do. He's not ashamed to show it to me.

_Oh, Jonathan…another unresolved matter. _I'm ready to give my apology another try. _Hopefully, I can catch him after school today._

"Ames, please no daydreaming. Would you pick up the reading?" I feel eyes on me. Luckily, I had been keeping track of my place, so when I open my mouth to read the next few pages aloud, I read the right ones.

We're almost finished with this book. The final test is coming up in two weeks. But I already know how it ends. Always curious, I'd skipped forward and read a few pages. The wrong pages, because I'd spoiled the book for myself. And now I hate me.

We spend the rest of class on some worksheets, and then the final bell of the day rings. How many more times will I hear it this year? High school is indeed coming to a close.

In my eagerness to catch Jonathan at his locker, I stand up quickly, gathering my books (and my Gotham University application sheet) in a hurry. A pencil starts to roll off the slightly slanted desk surface, and I shoot an arm out to catch it. Really, learning how to slow down would be a good thing…

I whack my elbow on the edge of the desk and temporarily lose feeling in my right middle finger.

_DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT! _I shake my arm furiously, trying to get rid of the odd numb sensation. Yow, I think I hit a nerve…or multiple. I try to wriggle said finger. It moves, but there's no feeling. Weird…

Grumbling, I step into the hallway, holding my books with one arm and still swinging the other about.

There's a large crowd around my locker when I get there. Jeering jocks, I realize. The boys have formed a semicircle around something, with the row of lockers making up the other half of it.

_What are they looking at?_

The hoots and laughter and hollers of the crowd. But there's a dying quality to the noises, as if whatever's being watched is nearing an end. I'm shaken with a jolt of anger. Has everyone forgotten about Naomi already?

I'm close to the crowd, so I crane my neck to see over the bobbing heads of those watching the proceedings. I've got a feeling I know what's happening. Then, I see a flash of Craig's sneering face. _Oh dear…_ I forget about my numb finger.

"What're you going to do now, huh Twiggy?" Craig spits at his target in his stupid, booming voice. There is no response. I hear a blow land.

Jonathan's getting beaten to a pulp. The "Twiggy" confirms it.

Now, my anger is justified, and the strongest sensation of the urge to _protect_ fills me to the brim. But I can't break through the students.

I briefly hear something like "Ichabod Crane" being muttered. Let me kill them all.

Before I can step in without a thought, a hand latches onto my arm and pulls me into a vacant hallway. I don't know who the owner is, but the hand alone makes my skin crawl. I let out a frustrated growl at the interference. And then I'm pushed up against the wall.

Remember what I said about not seeing that much of Paul this year? Yeah…

He's strong for a little guy. Freaking juniors…

"Hi, Ames." That voice. I look down at Paul with wide eyes. The zits, the hair…he hasn't changed a bit. Even trapped against a wall now, I feel more disgust for him than fear. Though my heart starts beating furiously as I realize my position. But I won't grace him with a response. Hasn't stopped him before, and it certainly doesn't now.

"It's been so long, Ames," he breathes in my ear, too close for comfort. "Did you miss me? I missed you so much." I briefly note that the far-off jeering has stopped.

Instead of cowering like I used to, I answer flatly, "No." I can congratulate myself on my bravery though.

Did he just… Was that his hand brushing my meager—?

Nuh uh. I've been groped.

Never has Paul taken it that far before. And it won't go further. I want to vomit at him, but I don't. Instead, I manage to get off a groin shot with my foot, and he lets go of my arms to lick his wounds. I'm still shuddering.

But he'll still pursue me. It's what he does.

That kick hadn't been as hard as I'd like to believe. Because soon, I hear his loping footsteps behind me. Either that or there hadn't been much to kick there in the first place.

A skinny figure almost magically appears in front of me.

"Jonathan!" I squeak as I stop directly in front of him. Crane is immobile in a way that scares me more than Paul, staring right past me, blue eyes blazing. I turn around as well. And watch a very odd exchange happen.

Paul has stopped his pursuit of me up the hallway and is now stock-still, eyes glued to Jonathan. He reminds me of a…rabbit. A frightened rabbit. His nostrils flare, his eyes wide. Why? What's he afraid of?

I don't know what happens, but Jonathan suddenly has a commanding presence. He tilts his head forward. "Paul," he says. That's it. His glasses glint in the light. Not quite a threat or warning, but something about his tone makes me shiver. There's power behind it.

Paul bolts, running in the opposite direction. My mouth falls open. How and why? And he's afraid of Crane because…? Something else has been going on.

Yes, I'm sure the dumbfounded look on my face is very attractive. Not that I should be worrying about that. I change it to one of curiosity and look to Jonathan. Without warning, his eyes snap to mine. His full lips are pressed into a thin line. "Are you all right?" he asks.

I don't know what to think. "Forget about me. Are you?" I've finally taken in his appearance in the aftermath of his bullying. His shirt collar is torn, one of the lenses of his glasses is cracked, and one cheek is swelling up and red, on the verge of turning purple. I'm frowning, automatically reaching up a hand to touch his split lip. _I couldn't stop this either…_ I think bitterly. "You're really battered up." This isn't the worst I've seen him, but still…

Jonathan jerks away from my hand. "Oh really? I wasn't aware." The biting tone hurts; I wish he'd stop using it on me. He seems so dark and dangerous right now, as if he's plotting revenge. There's a storm brewing inside that he's actually hiding very well.

Forget about our spat. Forget about apologizing. For now, I'm scared for him. And slightly of him. "Jonathan, tell me what you're feeling right now. Let me know. Tell me."

"No."

Does he know I saw it all happen? Blowing air through my nostrils, I grab his shoulder roughly. "Tell me."

"No."

"Stop making everyone's lives difficult." My grip tightens, but he doesn't shake me off. Either that or he can't.

"Never."

There's some humor there. I'm glad to hear it; I can use that to lighten the mood and pull him out of the darkness of his own mind. But all the same, I stick my tongue out at him. When did I ever become so mature? Oh wait. I did. _Damn…_ I said he was my weakness.

"Don't make me get inside your head," I threaten, a weak joke at my expense, but also bringing back to attention what he had done a few days ago. To lighten the situation. I release his thin shoulder.

Some of the darkness leaks from his face. "I'm sorry for my behavior."

Not registering what he's said, I shrug. "Well, you just got pounded by Craig; I think you're behavior is excused." We are staying way too long after school.

"That's not what I meant."

I stop. And listen. Is he really? "Jonathan—"

He cuts me off. "Quiet." It's almost as if I don't want to hear it anymore…

My eyes get big. I want to protest, but I can't find enough moxie to argue with him. Something about hearing _him_ apologize is degrading to him. Belittling himself.

"The way I spoke to you on the day of Naomi's death was inexcusable. There was no reason for me to talk to like that." Part of it's a lie. He had his reasons.

I blink. Perhaps Jonathan's changed as well. _Be mature, Ames._

"Will you accept my…apology?" He sounds like he's choking on the word. But Crane's not looking at me directly. No eye contact.

But there is one last thing still unresolved. Yesterday. He made me feel like a fool. So I raise an eyebrow at him.

He gets it. "I suppose this is for yesterday as well. But mostly for my coldness toward Naomi's fate. I'm sorry she's gone. Do you accept?"

I smile. I would've never imagined him to be the one to come forward with this first.

Crane's lips actually quirk upwards. "I'll take that as a yes."

Sighing with relief, I gesture toward the main hallway. "Shall we?" He nods and stays stiff as we stroll together. I keep as close to his side as I'm allowed without making physical contact, simply glad to have most matters resolved and to have him back. Where I am now…it's like I belong here. Thank goodness he overcame his pride, too.

I remain silent for a while. Then I exhale in defeat. I still need to say something. "I've got to say, I figured out why you said what you said. I'm just not sure what to think about it."

He gives me a sidelong glance of barely suppressed surprise, and his smooth stride falters a bit at my acceptance. He seems relieved as well. "You've changed."

So he can sense it. "Yeah. I had to." That's all I can say to explain the thought process I had to go through.

Lucky for me he doesn't press matters. But I add, "Y'know, I'm a senior now. I thought I might as well grow up."

He nods again. "I see." A thoughtful expression is on his face. Even beaten up and torn and with every reason to be mad at me, he's listening. I ask him, "About Naomi…you know what happened?" There's sadness at the edge of my voice.

Crane pushes his cracked glasses up his nose. "I used logic and reasoned things out." So he knows everything now.

We enter the lunchroom, and I can see that it's still gray outside. The last unresolved business between us has been resolved, so I decide to lighten the mood even more, for the good health of both of us. "Jonathan, showing emotion is okay," I tease.

He strides ahead of me purposefully, stops before the doors, and turns around. "Is it really, Ames? Is it?" Jonathan smirks. And off he goes into the parking lot. Without me.

Well, that's not at all maddening! But I smile at his back and follow, happy that we're on the fast track to putting these dreadful things behind us. _Edward was right. We should both smile more._

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><p><strong>AN: I hope the re-uniting was believable. I hadn't planned on having it happen so quickly, but I wanted Jon in this again. Things have been quiet from his side of the story. I also really hope ****Ames****' maturity relapses don't bother anyone too much…**

**_Goodfellas _was actually on my TV one day, so I decided to throw it in for the heck of it. Made in 1990 or so, so the timing is right.**

**Some timing may be off for the future. Despite what anyone says, I WILL be adding time skips; I'll let you know when they happen, so no one is confused. This story needs to move. And if you don't like it, well, do you know how that makes me feel? *puts on sunglasses* I don't feel. Not trying to offend, just warning. I'll make it work.**

**And I'm very pleased to announce that I am going to the ****midnight**** premiere of _The Dark Knight Rises. _I'm going to have a freaking heart attack…I can't even imagine…GAH. I have no words to describe how I feel. And I'm jealous of you lucky turds who get to go to the IMAX marathon thing. *grumbles***

**Question of the Day: What is a word or phrase that never fails to make you giggle?**

**THE POLL will be left up for one more chapter, so VOTE WHILE YOU CAN! Even though I pretty much know which direction I want it to go now.**

**Reviews are love. Criticism is just as much love. Fave n' runs make me sad. Til next time!**


	28. The Judge of All the Earth

**A/N: I've been busy. College shopping..._TDKR... L_ate chapter. Short chapter. There is a time skip here of a few weeks, but it's mentioned. Now on my fourth notebook for this story.**

**So the poll has been closed, and Jonathan will be dealing with the Mob situation in high school and in the future. YAY! But I've edited it a little bit. See A/N at the end of the chapter. **

**IMPORTANT FOR ALL READERS: As you may or may not have guessed, I'm stopping the dream sequences. They'll probably be edited out of the story as well. But the damage has been done, so you lucky ones know what's in store for ****Ames****' future. I have my reasons for doing this. PM me if you'd like me to explain myself.**

**Because of Crane's appearance in _The Dark Knight Rises, _this story is going to be longer than I though. WHOO!**

**HOLY, HOLY REVIEWS BATMAN! My eyes are STILL the size of dinner plates. Thanks to **Dance Elle Dance, Fan O' Fanfic, Lutzus, Shade77, PurgatoryNymphe, Half Of A Whole, Belle of Roses, thrufirewithoutaburn, Red-Dragon-Thorn, Fox Alder, Reyelle, Princess Lady Subaru, Arlena4815162342, SilhouetteGypsy, NessieXnessie, Mystress of Mayhem, Lokelani87, tribute14, LostGirl97, CND, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, Natulcien, Hench-Girl95, Guest, Comidia Del Arte, Guest, Nefeli Psycho, Decepticon-silverstreak, Guest, TonightWeDieRomantic, Hawthorn Tree, My Beautiful Ending, darkdeadmau5, Drake, xTheDoctorsCompanion, kaflute14, pourquoibella, Guest, SladeRavenFan, Miss Magenta Lestrange, Eva Sirico, Knightrunner, Indigo Scrawl, **and **InLoveAndCrazy **for all the reviews. I'm sorry if I missed anyone or forgot to get back to them. I also got a BUTTLOAD of faves and alerts. THANK YOU!**

**Movie Recommendation: _Pirate Radio. _Funny as hell. Heartwarming, too. Also, _Bronson. _With Tom Hardy.**

**"I didn't fall, I attacked the floor," "man cave," and "loins" are words and phrases that never fail to make me laugh. Ehehehe…**

**This chapter is dedicated to** thrufirewithoutaburn **for once having finished reading this story, went back and reviewed every chapter. In a way, this is also dedicated to the victims of the ****Aurora****, ****Colorado**** shooting. My thought and prayers go out to all who need them. Let's not make it about Batman please. Holmes deserves to rot in hell, munching Adolf Hitler's ass, and I won't lose sleep over it.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Jonathan Crane, Gordon, Falcone, _Batman Begins, The Dark Knight, _or _The Dark Knight Rises. _Nor the lyrics used at the beginning of my chapters. I have no money, so don't waste your time… Do you think you could let me borrow Bane for a little bit? ^_^**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Judge of All the Earth<strong>

_I came out of the darkness_

_With a bullet in my hand._

_I got one more shot at living';_

_I'm lucky that I can._

'_Cause I got a little roughed up._

_Yeah, I really got fucked up._

_I came out of the darkness_

_With a bullet in my hand._

_**~Redlight King, Bullet in My Hand**_

* * *

><p>It seems that if you don't pay attention, if you turn your head for only a moment, life takes you by surprise and bites you in the ass. <em>Bam! <em>Smack dab in the middle of October. True, only a few weeks have passed. But geez, where has my life gone?

Seized with a recurring plague of another unexplainable, sleepless night, I lay in bed at one in the morning and wonder what's wrong with me. This whole week, filled with insomnia. Actually, I'm not quite sure when it started. Unable to get relief from the tiredness that makes your body unable to function properly. Sure, this has happened before, this restlessness. A spot now and then. A day here and there.

But nothing consecutive. Not like this.

Feeling panicky, I roll onto my side and stare out my closed window. And I ask myself the same question I've asked myself every day this week. "Why can't I sleep?" I whisper.

No, no nightmares. I don't dream at all now, actually. It seems like I've stopped dreaming—any kind of dream, really—since Naomi's death, which is behind me and is still an unresolved burden. I simply no longer have them.

It's a thought that disturbs me.

I'd rather have nightmares. I have no other reason for being awake other than that when in bed, I'm alert. Restless. And then it hits me during the day, and I cannot sleep then.

My body had better not shut the hell down. My life is whizzing by, and I'm half-awake for it. Sleep deprivation? Not good.

I'm amazed that I feel so…helpless. I should tell Mom. Buy some cold medicine to knock myself out with. Eat stuff like oatmeal before bed,

Ugh. Then why haven't I done it? Because I'm trying to, say, kill myself? To see if I can outlast it?

Definitely not the first time I've had sleep problems. First time they've been so extensive.

I hear a voice from outside, and it snaps me out of my reverie. My ears perk up. There it is again. I strain to detect it. Muffled. Sounds like…a woman. Coming from far away. A distance. Like, from across the cornfield.

Is it—?

No. Oh, no.

Sitting bolt upright, I swing both legs over the side of my bed, alive, and dart to my window. Closed, because in mid-October, it gets very chilly in the night. I jerk the miserable thing up in one motion, and a blast of cold air hits me in the face.

But not as hard as what hits my ears.

"YOU WILL RSPECT ME, YOU DEVIL SPAWN!" Geraldine Crane's voice echoes through the night. My heart drops into my stomach. "UNGRATEFUL BRAT! YOU WERE LUCKY I WAS KIND ENOUGH TO TAKE YOU IN AFTER MY WHORE OF A DAUGHTER, YOUR SLUT OF A MOTHER, DIED! SHE ABANDONED YOU!"

Consecutive slaps. An all-too-familiar sound. I'm poised by the window, seized and frozen in place with some sort of sick curiosity. This has been happening almost our whole lives, but am I yearning to hear what's next? What can I do, anyhow?

"YOU ARE A SINNER! YOU'VE BEEN TAKING ADVANTAGE OF MY WEAK HEART AND POOR CONDITION!"

Oh my lord. She knows about him seeing me. Or going about as he pleases. Maybe he wasn't using my escape route. Maybe, with her holed up on the couch with her hip, he'd been using the front door. Maybe she doesn't know.

Another bout of shouting comes. Quieter this time. "But I'm healed, boy. And the time will come when you will be purified of your sins!"

It's been a few months since she broke her hip. Did I really expect her to stay that way forever? The blissful silence is over, and I have a cause to worry again.

Her witchy voice comes again, and I jump, taken by surprise with the sudden volume.

"…LAZY, SLOVENLY PIG! NEGLECTING YOUR CARE OF ME AND YOUR HOME! FRATERNIZING WITH THAT BITCH, THAT GIRL, NO DOUBT!"

That, at least, is the truth. Among other things he's been doing. I'm still remembering that instance with Paul a while back. So strange… I suppose I should be flattered; the creep's been staying away from me recently, after all.

"Fight back, Jon. C'mon," I whisper out into the cold night air. This is so painful. For both of us. _She's got a walking stick. It's not fair for him; that thing can split skulls._ I get the worst mental image EVER.

I stay by the window for the next half hour, listening. And well, staring. At the tree below my window. Debating. Do I need to interfere? To go rescue him? I've almost got one sweatpanted leg up on the windowsill.

_Wait it out._

I do, and the shrieking eventually stops. That's not what I'm listening for. I pause a little bit longer, and then nod my head, satisfied. "Ok," I whisper, and crawl back to my bed.

What had I heard? Nothing. Nothing more. It's the cause of my present relief. Geraldine may be back (I'd wondered where she'd been), but she's not feeling up to the physical torturing of Jonathan. After her fit subsided, I'd heard no slamming doors, no creaking barn doors…and no crows. No crows. And so for tonight, Jonathan is all right. I realize that it's only going to be so long before he snaps. Even someone like Jonathan can't endure this for too long before he goes crazy, in one form or another.

But maybe he's stronger than I give him credit for.

Back in bed, I sigh, trembling. Sleep will not come. Not even after tonight. This morning, I mean. Today is Friday.

It feels like someone has taken my eyelids and glued them back against my brow bone. My body is humming with the urge to rise up and do something. But I restrain myself and stay put, unexplainably awake until dawn.

* * *

><p>"So Jonathan, how's your grandmother?" I ask casually at lunch later that day. Or maybe not so casually. I've been staring at his fresh bruises for the past fifteen minutes.<p>

He hikes up the collar of his olive green sweater and glowers at me. _Leave it alone, _he seems to say. Light glints off his round glasses in warning. He'd gotten a new pair about a week ago, and somehow they had survived this early morning's attack.

_Do you really expect him to want to talk about it?_ I ask myself bitterly, watching my friend reopen one of his many thick books. Those have been making more appearances as well. Different, but nothing out of the ordinary for Jonathan. The norm, including topics of every kind of psychology practice imaginable, hallucinogens, and…yes, the occasional book on fear.

That is a fascinating subject in and of itself.

A few days ago, I'd managed to snag one away from him during lunch and flip through it, with Jonathan very nearly diving across the table after it. One of the only ones that I've nabbed from him that had actually interested me. That and _Extreme Depravities of the Human Mind._

Things between us are…quiet today. Probably because he knows that I heard the beating session last night. Ignoring me won't make it go away. I pick the crusts off the grilled cheese sandwich on my tray, prepare to eat it, and then switch to pineapple.

A wave of exhaustion hits me, and I yawn. Loudly, before smothering it with the back of my hand. _Yikes,_ I think sleepily, blinking my eyes. I'm crashing. Twenty seconds later, my mouth stretches open again, even wider. Ever more volume to this one. My eyes water.

Jonathan looks up from his book with a scowl.

"Sorry," I say. But it happens once more, and he glances at me curiously. My head feels like it weighs a good ton, and I plop it into my palms for support before it comes crashing down on the table. I'm definitely picking up some cold medicine after school. I can't go on like this.

How can I function without sleep? I've got a job to go to this weekend. I want to cry tears of frustration.

I must've let out a little moan of despair, because Jonathan sets his book aside and scans me, taking in and analyzing my condition. He can tell that this is more than just one sleepless night.

I drop my hands and gaze back at him, face forlorn and all my movements sluggish, like all have been today. I can _feel_ the bags under my eyes weighing me down. And if my crappy appearance doesn't give anything away, my slow disposition will, sweatshirt and sweatpants aside.

Crane says nothing, so I stare off into space and within minutes, find my eyelids fluttering shut. My head sags forward.

"Ames!" I start awake at the sound of Jonathan's raised voice and blearily gather myself enough to see him looking quite alarmed for someone like him.

"Did I just doze off?" I ask stupidly. He nods. "God, Jonathan, I'm sorry; I don't know what's wrong with me." Another yawn cracks my face open. I want to cry. Again. I know I look as tired as I feel.

The expression of alarm is replaced with one of pondering. Doctor mode. Crane leans forward, hands folded, and the bruise on his pale cheek livid. "Ames, have you been sleeping?"

I sigh. "Well…no," I answer truthfully. "Not this whole past week. I mean, sure it would happen every once in a while, but it's gotten worse." I'm pretty miserable now, actually. Is there a reason to panic?

Only Jonathan's mouth moves. "Nightmares?"

I shake my head. "I don't dream."

"Caffeine before bed?"

"No."

Drained, I answer all of Crane's other questions as he attempts to diagnose my condition. "Are you on any medications?"

"Nope."

Television before bed?"

"No." _Are we done yet?_ I wonder wearily. Surely I can catch some sleepy time during lunch here… "I've already said that I haven't been sleeping for a while. Maybe it's a condition."

Jonathan leans back against his chair, adjusting his glasses and raking a hand through his overlong, greasy hair. He's frowning at me. _Sweet of him to try and diagnose me, _I idly think. _I am so tired…I must be delirious._

Through my sagging posture, I try to force my lips into a grim smile. "Thanks for trying though."

Crane scoffs at his failure. "Well, I suggest you get tested for insomnia, among other things…"

WHAT?

I crush down my self-righteous anger and shrug at him. For all I know, there could be a mental disorder, undetected, running rampant in my mind. I _know _that Jon (Jonathan!) meant that as a jab at my mental state. _Grow up, Ames._

I let it go. "You're probably right," I tell him. I'm too exhausted to argue. My grades haven't been hot this week, either. All from a lack of sleep.

Silence between us once more. My eyelids droop again. Drool pools around my lips. Crane reaches for his book as my head gets so…heavy…

_WHACK!_

I give a little cry and jump out of my nap. I see Jonathan, still frozen in his position. Half out of his chair, arm extended, hand palm-down on the table a foot in front of me.

I rub my eyes and mumble another apology. Crane had slapped the table this time to wake me. If only he'd stop it. Disappointed in myself, I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Entertain me." The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. I'm a little mortified that I've made such a demand of him, but I can't take it back now that it's been said.

Our gazes bore into each other. He frowns. "What?"

A second chance. I rephrase my request. "Keep me awake. Please."

He shakes his head and clears his throat. "Not my forte."

"Please," I beg, wishing I could pull off the wounded puppy look. "I've got a test over _The Great Gatsby_ fifth period. I need to be awake. Please." _C'mon girl, don't cry…don't cry… _I don't.

"Pick a topic. I'll do my best."

"If I snooze and fail the test, don't blame yourself," I weakly choke out, pulling my hair. "It's not life or death. I'm sure Freddy's not coming for me or anything."

Jonathan has that look on his face that says quit-your-babbling-I-don't-understand-because-I-don't-care-stop-before-I-analyze-you-to-death. I shut up. Not mature.

"Topic?"

I have to speak now. I discretely pinch myself, hoping that the quick stab of pain will fire up my brain. "Ow. So, um, Halloween's in two weeks." Why I had chosen that as a conversation starter, I'll never know.

Keeping a conversation that doesn't involve arguing a point is clearly not Crane's area of expertise. "Oh?" he says. He's shifting around, clearly out of his comfort zone. His mature voice, hesitant.

I yawn again. "Yeah. I usually get excited for it. There's just something about it." I rub my fingers across my eyes.

Jonathan pulls his shirtsleeve down. "I'm not a follower of religion, despite Grandmother, so I see holidays as frivolous things. Silly." I fix the table with my stare and raise my eyebrows at it, instead of him. _No surprises there… _"But I have to admit, I favor Halloween above the others."

I smile. "Why?"

"I can't explain it." And I was hoping I could get him to open up a bit…this is as close as we've come to a casual conversation. I realize that he knows far more about me than I know about him. It's sad.

I take a wild guess, loving that I'm finally finding something out about _him,_ personally, as a person, and not about his past or current situation. "Something to do with fear, or how people's minds seem to run differently? How people can change on that night?"

His full upper lip curls. "Something like that."

_Good enough, for today. _Feeling my energy and life-force getting sucked out of me with every second that passes, I put Crane out of his misery. "Here. I've got suggestion." It's one I'd forgotten about, an idea I'd had a while back.

Crane looks exasperated. "Let me hear it." This whole thing is ridiculous to him.

I grin lopsidedly. "You'll love this." I try to look more awake. "I want you to run a personality profile on me." My eyes light up—I can't help it! I actually want to know the impression that I leave on him.

And god forbid, his eyes _sparkle_ at the idea, too. But then it's gone before I can blink, replaced with the all-too-familiar smooth mask. "Do you really want me to do that?" It sounds like a warning, coming from him.

_Just keep me awake…_ I don't give it a second's though. "Yup."

He leans forward even more. "Can you take it?" he whispers, almost mischievously.

_He's going to rip me apart, _I realize, too late. _And I'm not going to like hearing it. _I lift the corner of my downturned mouth and look at Jonathan's energized face with weary eyes. "Come at me." I shrug. He's going to throw out a whole thesaurus of adjectives. _What have I gotten myself into?_

I will myself to endure and not open my mouth to protest. Can someone be tired and on high alert at the same time?

Crane's smirk is slow to form, but it worries me. Can someone like him look…gleeful? "I warned you."

I sigh. "You did."

The way those azure eyes scrape over me lets me know that he'll be monitoring my reactions the entire time. Swell. Real swell. I'll do my best to be bored then.

"Impulsive," is the first word out of his mouth. "You act without thinking of consequences." I've accepted this one as true, so it all but bounces off me. Crane laces his fingers together and rests his chin upon them. "You can act childish. Prone to moodiness. Whiny. Stubborn. Falsely modest. Cynical. Hypocritical. Quick to judge."

_Will he mention any of my good qualities?_ I wonder, cringing. He's just getting started, and I'm already feeling uncomfortable.

"Short-tempered. You can be quiet and withdrawn, but opinionated and loudmouthed. Overly prideful, at times. Paranoid. Temperamental."

_He's going easy on me._ Right. Because he's not twisting my brain around and making me go nuts.

Jonathan's facial expression is one of enjoyment now. "You're brave but stupid. You have a hero streak in you that apparently makes you want to save everyone. But then you're quick to take a stab at others. Overall, you're pessimistic. You complain about your personal problems, and then expect no one to understand them."

I'm closing my eyes; I don't want to hear this. It hurts. "Well, I'm an introvert," I mumble, hoping that he'll catch it. He does. I swipe a hand across my mouth.

"Brash. Hotheaded. You've got a mild superiority complex and hold contempt for most of the world." And he doesn't? _Jesus._ I put my head in my hands. "Quick to snap at others if it means justifying yourself or saving your own skin. You won't pass up on an opportunity to show off. You criticize me for being reclusive, but you're the same."

My face is burning. And I keep my mouth shut. Instead, I let my head drop from my hands to the table. _Everything's' getting thrown in my face. Guess I asked for it. My idea._

Doesn't mean that I'm not begging to be shot.

"But luckily for you—and I can't say this for most people—you have a few redeeming qualities."

I'm wide-awake. My head snaps up, and I stare at Crane with big eyes. Oh, he is really enjoying this. He looks positively _alive._ "You have passion. You have heart. You're brave. Unpredictable. You stand your ground. And you're not _entirely_ ignorant. Or brainless."

_Thanks a lot,_ I want to say, but remind myself that Jonathan doesn't say nice things lightly. It sounds as if the words are coming out from between clenched teeth. Each one resembles an insult, actually.

Unfortunately, despite the slight turning-up of his nose, his feminine face is unreadable. A cold, hard expression.

"You have spirit. And care about those close to you. Like me." His voice drops to a cool whisper, and my face softens. Finally. Jonathan sits back in his chair again, away from the table. "You've also matured some this past month; it makes you more bearable to be around."

And at that last word, with perfect timing, the bell rings and the lunch period ends.

I feel supercharged. I stand up, grab my tray, and start to smile. "Thank you, Jonathan. I needed to hear those things." It's a part of growing up. "Maybe I'll pass my test now," I add.

Jonathan…just looks confused at my cheeriness.

As I empty my tray, I'm happy. Though Crane had dished out more criticism that compliments, two words stick in my head and ring there. _Like me, _he'd said. _And care about those close to you._

_Like me._

I feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. _Like me._

Jonathan has just admitted that I care about him. That he knows I do. And apparently, he also knows that he's close to me, and vice versa. He truly doesn't know how close he is, but he's aware of it, and has admitted that he's aware of it. THIS is currently the reason for the stupid grin on my face.

I know that the rest of my Friday will go a lot smoother than it has been. I might just stay awake.

* * *

><p><em>Cold medicine works miracles, <em>I think when I go into work the next day, half-refreshed by a somewhat decent night's sleep. My merry thoughts stop, and I'm quite surprised to see about six GCPD cars lining the street. Suddenly becoming the best driver in the world, I pull into the employee section of the Gotham Community Library's parking lot with extra care. There are almost twenty police out and about, but I don't see any around the library. At the moment.

I pull the sleeves of my navy turtleneck down around my wrists, wishing I'd brought a jacket because the weather's been so cold. For October.

I get curious. Dead leaves crunch under my feet as I stroll to the front of the library and down the sidewalk a ways to see what the cops are up to. They're hard to see in detail, in their dark uniforms.

They all appear to be…investigating. This is a quiet street to begin with. And the peace is being disrupted. It seems like most of them are sniffing around alleys and establishments up the street. A few cops are knocking on the doors of homes.

Asking questions.

I frown and hug myself as I stare at them all. What's popped up so suddenly that this area would be so flooded by the city's police department? I remind myself that I've arrived at the library with a few minutes to spare and am probably late for my shift by now.

_Curious. Very curious. _I'm going to have to explain my tardiness to Mr. Kipling, but hopefully, my reason will catch his interest, and I'll have a story to tell. I turn around with a thoughtful look on my face and start to make my way back to the library's wide entrance. A few unsupervised children sitting on the benches outside ogle at me with big eyes, waiting for their mothers or babysitters, as I draw near.

"Hello there!" I stop in my tracks and glance up to see a friendly-looking cop strolling in my direction. He gives me a small wave, and nervously, I wait for him to approach. Everyone feels like a criminal whenever the police are around.

"Hi," I say quietly when he's finally before me. I feel very small and cast my eyes to the ground, and my hand goes to rub the back of my neck. _What does he want?_

Wait. I've heard that voice before.

I jerk my head up and my eyes land on the cop's face. "I know you!" I blurt out accidentally before my cheeks turn red.

It's the cop from the protest that day. _What was his name?_ I rack my brain for answers.

Gordon. Officer Gordon. That's it. The mildly shocked expression on his face shows that he remembers me as well. "Well, hello again." He stares. I stare back. _Is he in his late thirties or early forties? I can't decide._ He's an attractive man, in a fatherly handsome sort of way. A comforting, reassuring aura. And the warmest pair of eyes I've ever seen. Gordon's whole person draws me in. Even without knowing him, this is someone I can trust. The one good cop.

I feel…safe. For the first time in a while. I've probably taken a few steps closer to him than I should have. I'm exactly two inches taller than he is.

"Well, you're in a different part of town today," Officer Gordon continues, after a while, seemingly forgetting why he'd walked up to me. "What're you doing here?" He waves a hand at the building behind us.

I turn around and look, teasing as I turn back. "What, is it unusual for a girl to be at the library?" I raise an eyebrow and my eyes move past the mustached police officer to scan over the ones investigating up and down the street. "The question is, what are you and your unit doing here?"

Gordon starts. "Ah yes." He pulls a pen and small notebook from the pocket of his dark uniform. "I saw you watching us from up the street. Miss, I was wondering if you'd be willing to answer a few questions." His voice keeps its naturally calm tone.

I forget about getting to work on time for now and breathe air onto my forehead, curiosity peaking. So they are investigating. "About what?" I ask, eyes bright.

Gordon's fingers smoothe over his neat mustache as he blows my world away with his next sentences. "We're looking for Carmine Falcone. Crime rates have gotten bad, and now even a cop's dead because of the Mob. We need to take him down."

It's too late to hide my reaction. My jaw goes slack, my eyes widen, and I freeze, heart pounding out of my chest and no longer breathing. A normal bystander would've shown only a slight interest; Gordon sees _my _reaction before I can crush it. Knowing that he knows, I blurt out automatically, "I don't know anything." I shake my head.

It's a lie, an obvious lie, and Officer Gordon sees through it easily. He's not suspicious, but seems taken aback by how frightened I suddenly am. "I didn't ask."

So Falcone _has_ been busy. I bite my lip and look at Dad's watch on my wrist. Ten past twelve. Crap. "Sir—Officer Gordon—please, I'm late for work." I gesture desperately at the library behind me.

I can't help. I can't rat. Falcone will come after me. Somehow. _Again. _Remaining anonymous is out of my mind right now.

Gordon gives me searching look. "Even a little something helps, young lady," he says sternly. _Don't arrest me for withholding information._

I swallow and shake my head some more. "Please, I'm late," I beg. I've been taken by surprise, and I can't think normally. We stare each other down, my eyes panicked and his firm and warm. By some miracle and through some understanding, he lets me go.

Maybe it's my youthfulness, or maybe he can see my broken past and damage. He sighs. "All right." He writes something down in his notebook before tearing the sheet of paper away and handing it to me with a steady hand. "When you're ready to talk, call this number and ask for James Gordon." _Him._ He gives me another searching look, and I feel guilty. "You know something, girl. At least give me your name."

_Thank god I'm not eighteen yet… _"Ames Manson, " I croak out immediately. With no reaction, he takes my name down and walks away toward the other officers. He is unhappy. Exasperated, to say the least.

At the same time, I press a hand to my forehead and stare at the number resting in my palm. I'm trying to squash the hope rising within me, and trying not to think about how I might just have gotten my answer.

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><p><strong>AN: Random thought: I've decided that ****Ames****' father looks or looked like Jack Davenport with dark hair. Thank you _Pirate Radio…_**

**I have to admit, I'm worried about ****Ames****' sleeplessness for this chapter. It's a few weeks later, so I hope we get the impression that it's been happening for a while. Also, for your mental imagery, Gordon is still young, so he does not have glasses yet at this point in time. By the way, do you think he would've taken ****Ames**** in? I know there's going to be some unrest about ****Ames**** not talking, but she'll have her second chance to tell her story with that phone number…**

**There's been some questions about Jonathan and Paul. YES, something has been going on, fear wise. Fear gas? No. Jon is only a high schooler. WORDS, however, are Jonathan's greatest weapon right now. Paul's already messed up in the head, so Crane can make it worse and rip him apart. Let your imaginations run.**

**Okay, now to the important part. Thanks to** Half Of A Whole, **I've rethought and edited my plan for ****Ames****, Jonathan, Falcone, Don, and the Mob. She is a life saver by the way. In _Batman Begins_, it's mentioned that Falcone (as she pointed out) shared a cell with Joe Chill who killed the ****Waynes****…** **It's not specified how long Falcone is jailed for but it would be between the murder of the ****Waynes**** but before Bruce returns to ****Gotham**** after college/university.** **Joe Chill's hearing is at the end of Bruce's first year at Princeton, and he offers to rat on Falcone for a reduced sentence, so Falcone would probably have to go to jail about now. This would set things in motion for _Batman Begins _and be a nice conclusion to the Mob plot. I'm thinking that sometime, Jonathan can pay Falcone a nice little jail visit and set something up for the future. Those were mostly her words, by the way. Thoughts, because I think that's what I'm going with. I'm still considering having Jonathan take out Don. I know this plot totally tosses the poll I'd made.**

**Who's excited for _The Hobbit? _Peter Jackson recently announced on Twitter that there will be three films, instead of two. YES.**

**Question of the Day: Inspired by _The Dark Knight Rises, _which Nolan Batman film is your favorite out of the whole trilogy? I HATE TO DO THIS TO YOU!**

**Speaking of Twitter, if you have it, follow me " hmeskins" for the Batman Quote of the Day and just if you want to get to know your author better. I FOLLOW BACK!**

**Want good youtube videos? Check out Jeremy Jahns. He does hilarious reviews of movies, and move trailers.**

**If you've seen _The Dark Knight Rises _and want to talk about it, PM me. I'm happy to discuss. Those who have not seen it should probably skip this section. SPOILERS AHOY!**

**So Bane. Bane, Bane, Bane, Bane. I'm in love. Next to Scarecrow, he's now my favorite Batman villain. I don't know, the Joker was a brilliant performance, but…I've never been that impressed by him as a villain. Crucify me. Bane was a little better, in my opinion. Much more of a threat to ****Gotham**** and Batman. If you don't think so, don't bring it up here. The brilliant Tom Hardy was unrecognizable, and I even knew he was in the movie! Remember the one scene where he had his shirt off? I couldn't get over how HUGE he was! My first thought was, not that is was hot, but, "Oh my god, that guy can KILL me!" Hardy is now number two on my babe list. And Talia…I hate that demon spawn. When it was revealed who Tate really was, I yelled out, "I KNEW IT!" very loudly. I despise her, but the fact that Bane was in love with her broke my heart. Any time a villain is in love or cries…I just get all sympathetic. *bawls* I never hated Bane. Not. Once. Not even when he broke Batman's back. Probably because that was done so epically. "Ah yes. I was wondering what would break first. Your spirit (hoists him up) or your BODY (CRACK!)." Awesome. AND THAT ENDING! Thanks for the mindf***, Nolan.**

**P.S. Judge Jonathan was amazing ;) And Anne Hathaway IS Selina Kyle! Like I said, PM me if you want to talk or bitch. I thought the film was amazing. As of now, I've seen in three times. Working on the fourth. No Marvel vs. DC crap. I hold both films with equal love.**

**Review. Review! Fave n' runs make me sad. *sniffle* I will respond! Feedback is…cookies. Just cookies.**


	29. Blood Work

**A/N: Hey there! Remember me? I'm that one chick who used to write that one story. After almost a full month without an update, I bet you thought I'd abandoned this fic, didn't you? Your lack of trust wounds me. I told you I'd never give it up. My excuse this time around? College. After settling in, I also figured that I spend the majority of my time studying. Add drama club, _War of the Worlds_ as a play, sci-fi fantasy club, and IM softball to that…in addition to have doubts about your major…well, it adds up. The major part of this is my main reason for not updating for years. I'm going to do a switch from psychology to pre-nursing. I don't know how to explain it, but it just feels right. Hopefully, this long chapter sates you and makes up for the long delay.**

**This chapter is mainly dedicated to developing Jonathan and his fear obsession and how scary he actually can be. I'm developing it, so to speak.**

**Also, I found out that _The Great Gatsby_ movie release has been moved back from December to summer. WTF?**

**Thanks to** Schrocken, GabyCorleone, emilypineapple, Guest, libwob, SilhouetteGypsy, Myboobseclipsethesun, thexdarkestxnightsx, algie888, Kagome Narome, ElektraMackenzie, NeverTooLate, stark-ships, Nefeli Psycho, haleo86, peskyparker, up in the woods, Half Of A Whole, Lord-Cas, Chrome, Lovely Hill, C'estMoiLiz, thrufirewithoutaburn, Miss Magenta Lestrange, Shade77, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, linnie kinda spinnie, Kitkat, LittleMissAngel, tribute14, darkdeadmau5, My Beautiful Ending, Indigo Scrawl, Decepticon-silverstreak, Invisible-Ayla, Ikari no Ojo, InLoveAndCrazy, pourquoibella, Arlena4815162342, actressen, FrostOfFate, Zeny, MetalheadKittie, Ariddle-Ascare, x-Miss-SeaBreeze-x, Comidia Del Arte, **and **Knightrunner **for the reviews! I also got a tone of alerts and faves this time around. Seriously people? It's an honor to have you as my readers. You are wonderful. If I missed anyone here, I apologize.**

**NEARLY 600 REVIEWS! I could have never, ever imagined this…**

**As for my favorite Nolan Batman film…I hate to do this, but I love them all equally, because each one is different, with different strengths and different weaknesses. Sue me.**

**Disclaimer: VULTURES! VULTURES EVERYWHERE! Haven't we been over this already? A million times before? I have no (legal) possession over anything mentioned here.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Nine: Blood Work<strong>

_Change my attempt, good intentions._

_Should I? Could I?_

_Here we are with your obsession._

_Should I? Could I?_

_**~10 Years, Wasteland**_

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><p>"Hey Jonathan, you'll never guess what—"<p>

I stop mid-sentence and frown at the table before me, which Jonathan is not seated at. _Why is he not here? _Avoiding me? Nah, I saw him at the start of school today, and he gave me something close to a smile. Or maybe it was a sneer; I couldn't tell at that distance.

"And I'm even eating lunch today," I mutter, sitting at the table anyway. I slam my tray down a little harder than necessary and watch mournfully as red ketchup splatters into the whole-grain noodles of my macaroni and cheese. Oh dear. Maybe not.

Jonathan hasn't missed lunch once this year. Where is he? And why am I worrying so much? I keep reminding myself not to get attached because after senior year? _Poof!_ He's gone, and I won't see him again. Knowing Jonathan, he'll get as far away from Gotham as he can. It's a gloomy thought, but good for him. He'll be rich and successful someday.

Well, since he was here this morning, he's probably in the library doing research or whatnot. I'll look when I'm done here.

I stick to my pineapple and chocolate milk and bread for lunch. I guess another one of my peeves is…I don't like my foods to touch. Not that anyone would like mac n' cheese plus ketchup. The meals have _slightly_ improved from last year, but I'm still not a fan. _Is the weekend here yet?_ I wonder glumly. It's only Thursday. I can't believe I'm actually thinking it, but honestly, maybe I should get out and do something tomorrow night.

The library. One place in the city I'd actually like to be. Maybe I should go at five. I think that vile _Don_ is off by then. "I still don't know if he killed Naomi…" I feel pressurized heat around my eyes. _Oh c'mon…don't cry…don't cry…_

I don't. But the guilt is still there, and I feel responsible.

Different topic. Who goes out to places alone?

I wonder if Jonathan would like to go with me. I can rent out books for him.

I want to hit myself as soon as that thought comes to my head. Since when have I ever considered taking him anywhere? It's not as if his grandmother lets him go places. He'd have to be able to sneak out or make an excuse for an after school activity. Will he even want to go to the library with me?

Is this because of the personality profile? Is that why I want to take him places? It's the most he's ever said to me in one sitting. I'd been allowed a glimpse of how good Crane is at what he does. His profile of me was pretty spot on. It hurt, but it was accurate.

I'm so confused about some feelings. I should just stop thinking about it.

Slumping over, I push my tray away and resist the need to cradle my head in my hands. I can't help but get the feeling that Jonathan's hiding something from me. I don't know what, but it's something…a bit unnerving.

I have to keep reminding myself, that though I've known him _personally_ for about a year, I still don't know much about Jonathan, other than pieces of his past and psychological interests and that I seem to intrigue him for some reason.

I'm remembering back to when I forced myself on him, the first day we "officially" met. He'd been in my classes almost my whole life, but I'd avoided him like the plague. For years.

And then there's me. A girl with a tragic past. How cliché. But it's there, I have one, and I can't change it.

_Enough._

Leaving my tray behind, I get up from the table and head toward the hallway. There have been fewer and fewer whisperings and rumors about Jonathan and me this year. Maybe people are growing up, maybe more interesting things have happened.

I need to find Jonathan. I hope he didn't go home to take care of Geraldine. It's happened before. And that had ended well…

I start with the library. I poke my head in the door and search quickly, eyes scanning. The librarian glares at me from her desk and presses a finger to her withered lips. Wincing, I withdraw my head. Not a very thorough search, but I don't want the librarian's wrath for loitering where I don't need to be.

I venture up and down many hallways, but I can't find him. "He better not have left," I grouse. I just want to ask him to the library. He shouldn't have a problem with it. It's not like a date or anything…

I stop in my tracks. A date? Why is my mind even going there? Yikes, we're just friends.

_Are you?_ a part of me taunts. _Are you really? All the attention he seems to give only you, that's got to say something._

Ridiculous. Jonathan? Feelings? For me? Impossible. Wrong. I wince. I certainly don't feel anything more than a protective sort of friendship toward him. I…can't. He'll be gone. It wouldn't be right.

Confused.

Jonathan would find the merest concept of "love" to be the utmost example of complete idiocy. So I don't know why he puts up with me. Because…because…I try to protect him? Because he studies and analyzes me like some kind of specimen? Because of, if there's any possibility in the world, feelings?

This type of thinking is dangerous. _Stop it._ You know what? If I ever acquire the guts, I'll ask. Even he might not be able to tell me why.

As I always do, I push thoughts aside and continue my search for Crane. Ten minutes later, again, I come up with nothing. Now in the farthest part of the school and tired of walking, I plop down on a bench across from an abandoned classroom. Always unlocked and always dark. I think some kids use it for quickies between classes, but other than that, no one does anything with it. There's a reason it's toward the back of the school.

I hang my head and dangle my arms between my knees, slouched over. _Where is he?_

_Thump._

A muffled sound. My head snaps up. All my senses, alert.

_Thump._

Louder this time. _Where is that coming from?_

"No, please…don't…"

A voice. I spring up from my bench. Staring at the "abandoned" classroom. Dark, but yes…definitely coming from there.

"Stop it! No more…please!"

A voice. Begging.

I try to piece the situation together. Thumping…abandoned classroom…a dark place. A voice begging. Saying no. Saying stop.

Holy cow. I swear someone's getting sexually assaulted in that room. Verging on raped. _I've got to stop it._

Despite the horrors I might find, I make a split second decision and creep quickly and silently toward the classroom door. As quietly as I can, I edge it open.

"D-don't…stop, I swear…" I move inside the room.

And then a hiss of a voice. "You are scum. Trying to sate your perverse desires. I know you, Paul; I can read you like a _book!_" The last word is spit out. "I can twist your mind in more ways than it already has been. You think you know fear now? You have no idea what I'm capable of, you swine."

I know that whisper. But I've never heard it so rough, so…frightening. So stern and stark. Dangerous.

_It's Paul and… _Suddenly, I know.

I let it slip in the black room, dimly lit by the fall light spilling in from a window, and reveal my presence.

"Jonathan?"

In the far corner of the room, Crane straightens up from nearly crouching over a cowering, sobbing Paul. And turns. _What did I just hear?_ Trying to crush my sense of horror, I take a few timid steps toward the pair. "Jonathan, what…?"

He turns back to Paul. "You may go." Cool, smooth voice once more. Dismissive. Sniffling, Paul scrambles out of the corner and sprints past me, slamming the door behind him.

I'm in a dark classroom with Jonathan Crane. For some reason, the notion both scares and thrills me. And for the first time in a while, Jonathan approaches _me_.

_What did I just see?_ He knows.

I'm unsure, so I clear my throat. "I've been looking everywhere for you," I say softly. It contrasts with his heavier breathing.

He's directly in front of me. "Have you?"

"Yeah. You didn't show up for lunch, so I got worried." I admire myself for my bravery; even now, I'm looking straight into his blazing eyes. The sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw are set off by the shadows from the dimly lit room.

I can hear myself breathing, in addition to him. I swallow and point to the door beside us, through which Paul had gone. "What was that?"

Crane's face is unreadable. "Nothing important."

"Stop lying to me," I say harshly, expression hardening. "I didn't look for you for 'nothing'. I didn't let my food touch for 'nothing'."

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "You shouldn't care if your food touches. It all ends up in the same place."

I snort. "Yeah. The toilet."

Jonathan looks at me in his equivalent of horror.

"Don't change the subject. 'Nothing'? Do you really think I'm so stupid that I would let something like _that_ escape my attention?" I get closer to him, too close, using my few extra inches of height as an advantage. It puts me not quite inside his olive green sweater, but close. I can smell his bookish scent.

"To spare your hurt feelings, I won't answer that question."

Letting the barb bounce off me, I try a quieter, more understanding approach, and invade his personal space even more. _I know he doesn't like it; that's why I'm doing it._ It has nothing to do with the fact that we're in a dark and empty classroom.

His Adam's apple bobs in his skinny throat.

_Wait. This is affecting him? My proximity? Why? Because it's human contact._ Well, he's my friend.

He knows I have to be putting it together. Paul being afraid of him. Paul staying away from me (minus a few stares). And now this. I breathe in deeply.

"Jon…," Crane breathes fire, "…athan. Please. I'm your friend. Be honest. Tell me." All thoughts of the library tomorrow evaporate.

Despite the fact that I've never seen Jonathan look more _alive,_ I can also sense he's a bit ashamed of what I'd interrupted. Annoyed, too. That aura from before has faded away. He doesn't answer; his demeanor is still chilly.

I try another new approach, so as a result, I take one step back, giving him his space. He'll get this; we've both seen _The Silence of the Lambs._ "Hey. Quid pro quo. I tell you things, you tell me things." I quirk my lips into a crooked smile.

Recognition flashes behind those glasses, and then I'm on the receiving end of a scrutinizing gaze. But he doesn't speak.

Me first.

I give it a shot. "I might have found a solution to the Falcone problem." And with no regrets, I let everything spill about Gordon. Everything. _What a nice man he is…_

There's a small silence when I finish my tale. Both of us are thinking. "Of course, Don is still…" I trail off.

Then Jonathan's composed but yet suspicious voice comes through. "Can you trust him?"

I remember Officer Gordon's fatherly expression, his warm eyes…how he made me feel _safe._ "Yes. It's rare, but he's a good cop."

"Hm."

I wait. "I told you something. Now tell me what's going on with you and Paul."

He's been given time to think while I was talking, and he's much more composed now. Though he doesn't show it, I know he's agreed.

I stare. "You've been threatening him." It's a nudge.

Crane sighs. "Yes. Do you care?"

I almost laugh. "God, no, but it was weird to see."

His jaw clenches. "Want to know why?"

"Yeah."

"Because of you." His voice grows darker again.

_Ah._ "Me?"

"I've been telling him to stay away from you, and threatening him if he doesn't. He's an annoyance. A pesky fly."

All right. I can believe this. _I want to._ So I will. "Really, that's all? What about what you said…about fear?" Didn't miss that.

Jonathan shrugs one shoulder. "Caught in the moment."

_He only wants Paul away from me. Nothing more, nothing less._ It's an alarming revelation. _Seemed like a lot more._ He's distant but safe. Normal and as smart as he can be. Just who I thought he was. A bit protective, but nothing dangerous.

He has to be safe. He can be my haven at times, and I can be his.

"Aha. So you do care."

In a startling display of emotion, Jonathan rakes a hand through his long hair and gives an exasperated grunt. "Yes. All right? I do."

Ha, that killed him! But this admission is progress. I smile, but in the dark, I don't know if he can see it. "I'm touched."

"Unhealthily attached. Remember?" His normal icy self again.

My smile fades. "Yeah."

Silence again. How awkward. Together, in a dark classroom. I'd probably be screwed if he'd have been anyone else. Literally. So now what? Lunch has almost got to be over. I can't see the clock on the wall.

The musty aroma of this room is overpowering. I fiddle with Dad's watch on my wrist. I've actually taken to wearing it more often. Almost every day.

The sad thing is, it pretty much fits perfectly. Oh, self-confidence.

I can hear us breathing again. My fears of him are gone. For now.

And then a thought strikes. A lost thought. I brighten. "I was wondering—and this is random—if your grandmother would let you go to the library after school tomorrow." I duck my head. Shouldn't this be the other way around? "With me. I want you to come."

Jonathan's answer is short. "Grandmother is…ill. Again."

I get an unexplainable feeling of…of…not quite dread but close. I've been shot down. Of course. So he has to take care of her… I guess I haven't heard her this week.

Did I just get claustrophobic?

"I didn't say no."

My eyes widen. _No way…_

"In fact, the library sounds enjoyable. With Grandmother ill, I can leave the house easily. I'll use a school function as an excuse."

Wow. It can't be me. He just wants to get out of that prison badly. Someone like him would jump at the chance of a library trip. I try to hide my shock. "I was thinking I could rent out books for you. Psychology books. Or whatever else you need. Or we can just read…"

I've never done this before.

He doesn't even appear to be listening. There's that thoughtful look again.

"Right," I mutter.

"What did you say Don looks like?"

I jump. Random. "Oh wow. Okay. Blonde hair. Good-looking. Lean. Sort of built. Pierced ears. Shaggy haircut. He's easy to recognize. Why?"

No answer to that one either. But Crane smirks. "The library. Which one and what time?"

_What does he know that I don't? What just happened?_

"Gotham Community. Will five work?"

Jonathan crosses me and stops in front of the door. "It'll do. Shall we? Three minutes until class."

I start. "Yep." And follow, praying that there aren't very many people in the hallway who would see the two of us exiting an abandoned classroom together. Not that I care anymore, but that would sure start those rumors anew.

I can't believe I actually asked. _It's not a date, Ames, geez._

_Whatever. Be mature._

Even caught up in my head and with a flaming face, I don't fail to notice that Jonathan opens and holds the door for me when I exit. The action is so subtle, I almost miss it.

There are some shades of Jonathan I have yet to see.

* * *

><p>I wake up the next morning, and it's a normal day…<p>

Oh crap, no it's not. I have a test in anatomy this morning.

I'd fallen asleep going over notes and worksheets for the third time last night. So it's not like I _didn't _study_. _I'm just…not as sure of myself as I'd like to be.

Yesterday…was weird. I'm not sure how to describe it. Perhaps I should put it behind me. Like I do with anything else that's troubling.

The thought of Jonathan and I going to the library tonight is exciting enough to get me through the boring routine of school. I'm sure I average abound a "B" on my test, which isn't my best but something I can live with, with a grimace.

I burst out of the front door of the school and make a beeline for my truck. Cars pull out of the lot. Like the smart person I can be, I spend the next half hour reading assignments and doing some worksheets to avoid turning Black Jack into a pile of scrap metal. There are a _lot_ of vehicles in this lot.

I can't see Jonathan's car; I'll just have to assume he's coming. It would be his style to "stand me up". And yes, I'm planning on being there early. I wouldn't want to miss my friend. _Five o'clock…_ I'm pretty sure Jonathan has never met a girl anywhere before.

Not that he'd be thinking about something like that. I might affect him somewhat, but sometimes I swear he doesn't feel.

The parking lot is finally clear. Black Jack starts up with a shudder. _Please last me through my senior year…_ I beg silently. _I've taken good care of you._

I'm really happy I don't have to drive through the Narrows to get to the library. That's my home route. I've got a very uneasy feeling today, despite how well it's been going.

Fridays at the library are usually pretty dead; most people are going to choose a party over reading a good book. "Shame," I say as I pull into the library's main lot. I step out of my truck and shiver when the cold air hits me. Halloween and November are both in a week. I'll be eighteen soon. Very, very soon. I wonder if I'll feel any different.

I walk to the front of library, ten minutes early, and observe the empty street. No cars; it's vacant. The only movement comes from the wind blowing crisp fall leaves across abandoned-looking road. Eerie. Very…disconcerting.

I rub my arms and sit down on one of the benches outside the front doors. No children today.

_The nights become longer…_ And it's already getting dark.

I've never particularly liked Gotham at night. So dangerous. Things _become_ the night here. But I guess it depends on where in the city you're at. The main districts are quite beautiful, all lit up like Christmas. But the others, especially the Narrows, become nothing but shadows.

Just like that shadow across the street. Against the thrift shop building.

The shadow moves.

I blink.

It's gone.

I rise to my feet and slowly, so slowly, make my way across the street. As if I might startle something. The pounding of my heart might though. _This_ I have not seen in a while.

Standing on the opposite sidewalk now, I scan each building in front of me, searching for that moving sliver of night. It's been months since I've seen one of these things.

Stock-still, I hear it behind me, the barest whisper.

_There._

I whirl around in time to see a black-clothed figure dart into an alley near the library. A better glimpse this time.

Ninjas!

What the heck is going on in this city?

In a stupor, I'm frozen in front of that thrift shop for the longest time, trying to calm my nerves and addled head. I seem to be the only one who's seen these things. Why is this street empty on today of all days? I run a hand through my messy hair. It's got to be five o'clock.

Fate smacks me in the face again.

Reminding myself to look for Jonathan, I glance up at the library's front entrance in time to see a horrifyingly familiar, blonde-haired man coming out. Easy walk, shaggy haircut.

Oh snap.

Don does work on Fridays. He's off now. How could I have forgotten?

Even I'm scared by the sudden uprising of shame, hate, anger, and guilt within my body. _Did this man kill Naomi? Did he really do it?_ _I don't know._

Don looks up. Sees me. Completely by chance. What else will go wrong today? I can't see his face.

Don steps into the street. Starts walking toward me.

Why can't I move? Like a rabbit before a predator, I'm frozen, eyes wide.

Middle of the road now; I can see his face fully. A murderous look in his eyes. Falcone must want me finished. And here's his chance.

I'm screwed.

A rusty station wagon barrels onto the street with a screech. Everything happens too quickly for my brain to catch. A car. Acceleration. A low, sickening thud. Don hitting the ground, lying still. Then groans. A scream.

My scream.

The car has stopped.

Almost blindly, I run out into the middle of the street, not believing what I've just seen.

Empty library. Empty street. Convenient.

A part of me asks, _Is Don alive? _The other part asks, _Why do I care?_

The station wagon's engine is still running when I get there, and for some reason, I'm not surprised when Jonathan comes stumbling out of the driver's seat. For once in his life, he looks shaken.

Then it hits me. He showed up just in time. He saved me. He hit Don with his car. And saved me. The watch on my wrist tells me it's exactly five o'clock.

Gasps and moans and pleading fill the air. Jonathan seems completely unaware of my presence as we look down upon Don, who is on his back with one arm twisted unnaturally. My overall shock doesn't hit me, though, until I see the puddle of blood steadily pooling beneath Don's head in the fading light. The source is a large gash on his forehead. It's growing larger, seeping into the cracked ground. The shadowed ground.

"Help me," Don begs. His voice is teeming with pain.

My breathing accelerates. _This is it; this is justice. _But all the same, I'm white as a marshmallow in the snow and my nails are leaving imprints in my palms. I find that I don't feel sorry for him. No guilt.

Then why am I shaking?

Jonathan steps forward. And flicks his foot against Don's shattered arm.

Don's piercing howls fill the air.

He's sobbing. You'd think he'd be a little tougher.

I watch in muted horror as Jonathan's lip curls. "They scream and they cry."

It's the most chilling voice I've ever heard. I'm snapped out of my daze by his cruelty.

"Jon?"

He becomes aware of my presence then, becomes himself again. He doesn't even notice that I haven't called him by his fully proper name. "Ames," he says simply.

What can we say to each other?

I stare at Don again, who is still writhing in the growing pool of his own blood. "You saved me."

Crane clears his throat and adjusts his glasses, still rattled by what he's done. "Yes. I…I feel the need to protect you. Sometimes."

The truth of it all slowly starts to sink in.

I point. "You hit Don with your car!" I say disbelievingly, stating the obvious.

He seems bemused as he rubs his chin. "Yes, I did, didn't I?"

The wet puddle is so, so red. I'm still pale…still shaky…and I can't stop looking at it. There's something oddly real and nauseating about seeing that much actual blood…I don't know how to put it… Suffice it to say that I'm incredibly stunned, and now I can only try to stifle my horror by closing my eyes and holding my hands into fists. I keep telling myself to think happy thoughts, happy thoughts…

"Ames, compose yourself," Jonathan snaps at me.

I flinch, hating the use of his harsh tone on me. He rarely uses it, but it stings when he does. Savior one moment, chastiser the next.

I don't know what to think. Jonathan hit someone with a car. To save _me._ He _cares_ for me.

I can't wrap my head around it.

A cold hand grips my ankle. I jump and find Don grabbing me. "Please help," he whispers.

Not so tough or intimidating now.

Before Crane can hurt him again, I jerk my leg away, trying to be tough, but still terrified. In a way, Don brought this on himself. But I have to know. I swipe a hand across my nose before asking, "Did you do it?"

Don groans. "What?" His blonde hair is sopping wet.

"Naomi. Did you kill her? Or did someone else?" The blood is sickening; I can't look at this broken man directly. How has no one seen what's happening? How is this night so vacant? "Tell me, and you'll get help." I'm split. Hard and cold, but then weak and white and trembling. A little girl pretending to be a woman.

Having no options, Don sags. "No. I did…I did."

I turn to Jonathan and find him giving me the most curious look. I'm sure the hate is burning in my eyes. "I'm not helping him."

"You made a deal." He's calmer now.

"Your car. Your hit. Your responsibility." I don't want to do this, but I can't bring myself to help the man who killed an innocent girl on the orders of my worst enemy.

To my surprise, silently, Jonathan understands this.

I won't help him. I can't. How did we get to this point? "There's a payphone on the street corner."

Jonathan is gazing down at Don with the strangest glint in his eyes. It's an almost predatory look. "You're in good hands," he tells Don icily. I don't know what he's thinking about, but I can see the large gears in Crane's brainy head turning.

But it's easy to tell when someone's plotting. Is he? Or isn't he?

Don couldn't be in better hands. Crane wants to be a doctor of sorts…right? Not that I should care, but he's got an idea of what to do, how to keep someone alive.

I refuse to help Don, but I don't want his blood on my hands. And I'm sure Jonathan doesn't want manslaughter on his squeaky clean record.

Falcone picks up people with no family, no connections. He wants them easily disposable. Don is one of those people. Who would know?

The station wagon's engine is still running.

Don cannot die, though, as much as I wish it. In a way, I want Falcone to see him damaged. But I know it won't happen.

I've got one other plan in mind. And this one, plus the one I want to act out later, will affect me. Change me.

I move my trembling hands behind my back and exhale, playing tough. But Jonathan sees right through it, his blue eyes alternating between resting on me and piercing through Don. "Ames. Go home. I'll take care of things."

I trust him, but that look in his eyes…

I hesitate all the same.

For the second time this week, he approaches me. His smaller hand grips my upper arm tightly, and he gives me a little shake. It jostles my brain. "You can go. You've done enough. This will be handled."

He has a plan, but his voice…I've never heard it more persuasive.

I bite my lip and find myself nodding slowly, allowing myself to believe him. Some part of me says that the gravity of the situation hasn't hit me yet.

"Go." One last nudge. He wants to be rid of me.

I pull away and do what he says. Something about this is not sitting right with me.

I never learned to listen to that little voice in my head.

I reach the sidewalk. The library. The main lot. It's at a distance now, but I give the scene one last look.

Jonathan is crouching over Don's form. One hand pressed against the head wound, the other holding the busted arm. Good hands indeed.

I collapse into Black Jack and swear I hear a yell before I slam my door shut.

* * *

><p>My house is unoccupied when I stumble in around six. A note on the fridge tells me that Mom is out with some friends, leaving the house to myself and telling me that there's leftover meatloaf in the fridge.<p>

Perfect.

Racing upstairs to grab Officer Gordon's number to the Gotham City Police Department doesn't take long.

I can trust this man. This is my goal. I'm going to tell Gordon everything.

I'm frightened and excited by the idea. That I'm telling someone who can help. The end of my problems is so close, I can taste it. What an ideal thing to never have to look over my shoulder again. I can help and be helped in return.

There's a corded phone on the wall beside Mom's bedroom. I grab it and enter the room, flicking the light on, for a little privacy, though there's no one else around. The stretching, twisting cord trails behind me.

This phone is a curious one. Corded, but the dials are on the phone itself and not on the base. And it's a horrific peach color.

I stare at the slip of paper in my hand as I lean against a dresser.

This is it. My solution.

The Mob…it all has to stop. Too many people hurt, too many lives lost and ruined. Even before mine. How do I help with Falcone's arrest? This is a huge question.

And Wonderland is my answer. Falcone visits there still, I'm sure, even though I no longer work. He'd been coming long before I was singing, Mr. Sorvino said so. It was only convenient that I fell into his lap just so.

Wonderland. I hope they don't already know about it. And if they don't, I hope they can nab him there. He's a cocky, slippery bastard.

I'm so scared.

I punch in the numbers. One. By. One. And each resounding beep echoes in my head. The shrill ringing that follows rattles my bones. I can't believe I'm doing this.

I curl a twist in the phone cord around my index finger.

"Gotham City Police Department, McDonnell speaking."

The sudden answer and the impact from my earlier situation with Don frightens me out of my skin. I try to answer but choke.

"Hello?" The man on the other end sounds impatient.

_No! _I think, panicking. _He cannot hang up._ Shakily, nervously, I ask for Officer James Gordon.

"Eh, Jim? Sure, I'll put you through."

Tinkling jazz on the line. The wait is forever. I stare hard, focused, at the opposite wall, brow furrowed.

Then the kind, warm voice comes. "Gordon."

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><p><strong>AN: Okay guys. So I have a dilemma. I want to start watch _Dr. Who_, but I don't know where to start. A little help? I know the series has been going for a while, but then it stopped and was rebooted. I'd like to watch the newer stuff. Just an added detail.**

**You'll take notice that Gordon keeps popping up in this story. It will remain that way. Gordon is definitely one of my favorite characters from this series, so he'll be involved. I've got some plans for ****Ames**** and him. Someday. Also, I'm hoping to install the sense that Jonathan tries to manipulate ****Ames**** sometimes.**

**I'm planning on making the next chapter a filler-ish chapter, because the one after that is going to include the second biggest event that happens in ****Ames****' senior year. I'll leave it shrouded in mystery.**

**Question of the Day: I'm going to make this fun. Remember the last song you listened to and put the words "in my ass" after the title. What are your results? ;)**

**Also, follow me on twitter hmeskins if you want a Batman Quote of the Day or if you just want to get to know your author better. I FOLLOW BACK! Thanks to those who did follow me last chapter.**

**Leave a review! Share! Fave! Put on alert! No faves 'n runs. It depresses me. Reviewing will be to your advantage; I stay in contact with those who do, especially when it concerns this story. You'll get updates and information, if your lucky.**

**See you all next time!**


	30. Error in the System

**A/N: WHOVIANS! WHOVIANS EVERYWHERE! Not to mention that I now am one. And a Matt Smith fangirl. Don't kill me.**

**Hey I'm not dead! That's all I really have to say, I guess. Well it's been an eventful past few months. College is murder, to put it plainly. Changed my major to Human Service Counseling, and it's staying there. I've also developed Generalized Anxiety Disorder, officially diagnosed, but I got a 4.0 for my first semester of college, so it's all good. What else….my grandpa died, and I've recently acquired a boyfriend. And changed roommates twice. And a 12-page college paper kept me from this story. Anyway, that's behind me now. I hope.**

**Okay, a warning. This chapter is a definite filler, and definitely not the best one I've ever written. That comes later. Or, in other words, the next one.**

**_The Hobbit, Django Unchained, and Les Miserab _are amazing! GO SEE!**

**Thanks to **ShizukaRen-Hime, xMissEmilyx, thinkaboutit36, Last Laugh, Silver Katsuyami, libwob, BANEHiwatari,Sherlock's-Avenging-THG, Reyelle, widdlehiddles, TheDayDreamingWriter, ATLAsnaps-fan, AlainHotCoco1, emilypineapple, Musicaddict1, BloomingFireHeart, B, youneedtolightenup, CeruleanOctopus, SilhouetteGypsy, Slytherin's Strumpet, Miss V, rodeogirl2393, Blairx6661, xxxjetgirlxxx, BlackRoseRed92, Sonyablack, bloodysherlock, RandomlyLiving, Thanatos Angelos Girl, haleo86, pandorasocks, Mockingbird's Purity, safranbrod, itspeanutbutterjellytimex3, Anonymoose, Guest, OccasionallyProfound, CND, Drake, pourquoibella, Guest, Graceful Whovian, InLoveAndCrazy, Kitkat, Ariddle-Ascare, Lokelani87, omnomchocolate, linnie kinda spinnie, Glister, MyFeetWon'tTouchTheGround, My Beautiful Ending, ZenyZootSuit, NeverQuiteAwake, Arlena4815162342, Decepticon-silverstreak, Pixelette, SladeRavenFan, fallenangelrocker91, Ezereal, ShaydesofDarkness, MusicFiend666, theMadMarauder, Eva Sirico, SnailsAndPuppyDogTails, Comidia Del Arte, LostSamurai, Scary Vampiress, Guest, Invisible-Ayla, 819, **and **Knightrunner, **for the reviews! I'm on my ass here; nearly 700!**

**To answer my own Question of the Day, ACDC "Dirty Deeds". I kid you now. And to my reviewer _Drake_, my brother actually suggested "10,000 Fists" when I asked him.**

**This chapter is dedicated to **libwob, **who for many weeks has been reading this story. I dedicated this one to said reviewer because they have left a review on EVERY CHAPTER! I know there were a lot of you who read this story through the night, and I thank you.**

**Two songs for you. "****Paradise****" by Coldplay, and "The Heart Asks Pleasure First" by Nightwish.**

**Discalimer: I own nothing. Yada yada yada, yip yip yip. Blah blah blah. NO TOUCHY! Original characters belong to my nineteen-year-old self.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty: Error in the System<strong>

_Us and them._

_And after all,_

_We're only ordinary men._

_Me and you._

_God only knows,_

_It's not what we would choose to do._

_**~Pink Floyd, Us and Them**_

* * *

><p>One week. No word from Gordon. One. Full. Week. My insomnia returns. One week with no sleep. One week of lying in bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. One week of falling asleep during class, of my body taking micronaps. Those keep me alive, but I feel like I'm taking a turn for the worse.<p>

One week without Jonathan. I don't sleep; I don't dream.

He would never skip school, but to me, he's turned into a ghost. A gawky, skinny, blue-eyed ghost, if not a bit taller than he used to be. I know that once again, he's avoiding me like the plague. And I know Don is the reason.

I don't know about Don's current state of well-being since the incident last week; I don't know if he's alive, dead, or insane. And Jonathan wants to avoid answering that question, so therefore, he's avoiding me.

But not today.

Falcone and (as far as I know) Don are still on the loose. During our phonecall, Gordon had thanked me kindly for the information, expressed his sympathies for my past and current troubles, and said he would keep me as uninvolved as possible in the situation. I had rolled my eyes at that; I've been involved for far too long already, so it's highly unlikely I'll get out of anything at the snap of a finger. But I do want out now. He then told me he'd tell no one else of my history or involvement and promised to call me if anything happened or if the situation changed.

Not knowing is one of the worst feelings in the world. But right now, I'm stalking my prey.

I'm wearing a dark green V-neck tee and high-waisted blue jeans as I lean against the wall opposite the library door. Crane's in there; I know he is. He wasn't at the lunch table, so he has to be here. He's successfully evaded me for a week; he'd never been in the library when I checked before. Good lord, is he in for a confrontation…

"Hi Ames!" Kelly Webber walks by. Shrinking back against the wall, I give her a little half-hearted wave. I've been keeping my distance from people; what happened to Naomi will not happen to them, no matter how much I may hate a choice few.

I furrow my eyebrows and blow a wavy strand of hair off my forehead.

_Don, Don, Don, Don, Don, Don…_

A tiny movement ahead catches my attention, and it takes me two seconds to realize that Jonathan's face has pushed its way into the small glass window of the library door.

I blink.

His facial expression is one of cold indifference. He's seen me but doesn't show it, despite the fact that he's looking right at me. My blood boils and my back goes ramrod straight. I glare into his eyes. _You're in trouble_, my face says.

I point at him.

With a sneer, his face vanishes from the window. I do an inner double-take and deduce that he's taken one of the exits inside the library to another hallway.

"Oh no, you don't," I fairly growl before pushing off the wall and jogging up the hallway. Maybe I can get him by taking another route. This is the _last_ straw; he is _not_ getting away from me.

After searching the hallways, I realize I feel like a little second-grade girl chasing her crush after he threw a rock at her. It leads to an extremely childish feeling, so I slow down to a defeated walk. Class has got to be starting soon.

Panting, I silently wish I was in better shape. Leave it to Crane to be so elusive, but my sleep-deprivation could be making me slower and dumber than usual.

I fight a yawn and the urge to scream.

Then an idea hits me. Where do almost all men go to avoid someone, women in particular?

I can't believe the thought crosses my head. _The bathroom…_

God, I'm such a creeper.

"I can't believe I'm dong this," I mumble as I stagger up another hallway. Jonathan wouldn't go all the way to the one in the lunchroom, indeed, if that's where he has gone. It'll be the one in the hallway. How big this school actually is is really starting to hit me.

I'm going to corner him. Jonathan can't stay in the bathroom forever, even if he does hate me so much as to avoid me. Hopefully, my hunch here is right.

I make no exceptions; my questions are unanswered.

It goes better than expected. As I'm nearing my target, my face splits into a wide yawn that forces me to duck my head and shut my eyes to avoid them watering. Meaning my attention is focused elsewhere; I don't see my target as I round the corner.

_Bam._ I bodyslam Jonathan unintentionally and knock him sideways into the wall. My own body (and head) protest at the rough contact, but Crane's muffled grunt attracts my attention away from myself.

"Well, this worked out nicely," I sigh. I turn my full glower on Jonathan, who is rubbing his head and not paying me any mind. _Even now._ "You know, the wicked part of me really hopes that's hurting."

The permanent scowl on Crane's bony face deepens, but still he ignores me as he straightens up.

"Who crapped in your cornflakes?" I gesture wildly with a hand.

No answer. He's trying to escape me.

"Hey, what's your deal, huh?" I corner him against the wall, using my height to block any exit. "Friend? I haven't seen you for a week? What's your problem?"

"What's yours?" Jonathan spits, still keeping his posture. I doubt anyone's ever been in his circle of grace more than I.

I bark with laughter and lower my voice. "My problem? Oh it's not like _anyone_ got hit with a _car_ or anything last week. Nope. Definitely something I should be kept in the dark about." It comes out bitchier than intended.

I see it briefly, a look of guilt on his face, but then it's gone so quickly I swear I've imagined it. His only response is, "You left the scene."

My mouth hangs open in mild surprise, and I back off. "Yes, I did. But is that reason to avoid me and keep me in suspense for an entire week? Lord, we could be criminals…"

His blue eyes flash dangerously. "You left the scene and therefore everything else entirely in my hands. You washed your own hands of the situation. Does it really concern you any longer?"

_Are all men this frustrating? _I don't understand why he's being so cold, but it hurts a lot. "This _does_ concern me. Don was after _me._" In the back of my awareness, I hear the school bell ring. "Is he dead? Alive?"

Crane shakes his head, smirking. "You foolish girl."

_Shut up. My respect for you is going down the toilet,_ I want to say, but I hold my immature tongue. "What?"

He completely blows me off. Pushing me back, Jonathan crouches down and collects the books that had spilled out of his arms. "I'm late for class, as are you."

Reality hits me. "You're going to keep acting like I don't exist. You're not going to say anything at all?" I am stunned.

"You've made me late." Jonathan angrily shoves past me. I'm limp. Disbelieving.

"Jonathan, wait—" I croak. But he's around the corner and he's gone. It wasn't said directly, but I feel like something's over between us. He doesn't want my problems anymore, and that's understandable. The least he could do was be clear about it.

But maybe for him, he was clear enough.

I place a hand against my head and fight the need to cry. I feel it's my fault, somehow. "I can fix this…I can fix this…" I mutter. It's got to be my fault. Jonathan's left a void.

Lack of sleep and emotional turmoil don't mix well together, so I do something completely uncharacteristic of me and cut class, though I'm not sure what to do with myself for the time given.

Nurse's station. Take a nap.

I'm not sure where the idea comes from, but boy does it sound like a good one. I haven't been to the station since my food poisoning incident last year. I wonder if the scenery has improved.

Not even that fact can take my thoughts off Jonathan and his not-so-unusual coolness toward me. Hardly ever toward me… Annoyance, yes. Irritation, yes. But he's never been indifferent, cold, or almost hateful. He had been hateful; those eyes don't lie.

I sniffle, yawn, and try not to bawl. I've never been so frustrated. How hard is it to tell a person the truth about someone significant? Christ, is someone _dead_ because of us?

The lights in the nurse's station are on, but our nurse isn't in when I poke my head in the doorway. But the lights being on means I'm welcome; all the cabinets are locked. For once, I'm the only one in here. Quite a few kids usually take naps during the day. Like I'm about to.

_Not nap. Rest,_ I think. But my eyes are heavy and I'm exhausted. I never fall asleep at the right times.

I sink heavily down onto one of the few cots in the room. The walls are still colored that old awful yellow. Those are enough to make anyone want to close their eyes. Which, stupidly, I do.

And drift off.

I remember distinctly hearing a bell a while later, but it goes over my head as insignificant information. The activities in the hallway don't even make me want to rise. I simply turn on my stiff cot to face the wall and doze again. With everything that's happened with me and Crane this past week, I'm past the point of caring about school. Or life.

How did I get to this point?

I rest for another hour and a half before the final school bell rouses me. Groaning, I sit up and massage my sore, tight neck. _Ow… _Dimly I realize I'd not only slept through fourth period but fifth as well. And as a high school senior, I don't care. I simply lurch off the cot, grab my schoolbag off the floor, and join the steady flood of students in the hallway.

The crisp autumn air sharpens me a bit when I get to the parking lot, but I notice that Jonathan's car is already gone, no longer one of the last ones to leave. Like me, for safety reasons. Usually, he waits and stays behind to avoid the rush. But not today.

I decide then and there that I don't want to go directly home.

Yawning again, I convince myself to not go careening off the road as I take a different route, fighting the traffic into Gotham. Even I'm not sure of the thoughts going through my head when I find myself parked in the lot of the Community Library. What am I doing here?

My legs seem to have a mind of their own as they carry me out of Black Jack and up the cracked sidewalk, into the middle of the empty street.

Right where the incident happened.

_The station wagon around the corner, Don's body on the ground, the way Jonathan looked at me…the look he gave _Don_. That last scream…_

I can't form coherent thoughts.

I don't why I'm standing here, or who or what I'm waiting for. What am I trying to see? The scene replaying itself like a ghostly projection? Am I looking for a spot of blood on the road, the residue from Don's head? As if it would give me any indication as to if he's alive. Or dead.

An autumn wind makes me shiver. Definitely Halloween today. I can feel it all around. A few carved pumpkins grin in shop windows up the street. Hay bales in yards. Scarecrows on full display.

I gaze around this street one last time before stepping off to the side. An elderly couple on a walk gives me curious looks as they pass by, but I keep my head down. I have accomplished nothing here. Time to go home to Mom. I should tell her I skipped my last two classes in favor of sleep.

The sun is already going down.

I drive home more slowly than usual, and when I get there, Mom's sitting at the dining room table, at her books again. Her copper hair glows softly in the evening light as her nails clack diligently at a calculator. I'm struck once more by how beautiful my mother is and forlornly regret the fact that I seem to have inherited none of it, as her only child. She must be kind of disappointed.

She looks up as I make my way to the stairs, and she might've let me go if it weren't for the fact that I look more depressed than usual. "Ames, what's the matter?"

My answer is automatic and dead, that of a typical teenager. "Nothing."

Didn't I once say I was going to try telling her the truth from now on? Seems I'm going back on that promise.

Mom punches in a few more numbers before declaring, "You are lying."

_Ames Irvette Manson, someone's trying to help you and you're pushing them away again. Buck up,_ I scold myself. Change is hard. I place one hand on the railing of the stairs and say, "What if I told you I had a…fight…with a…friend?"

I expected her to reply with something like "You have a friend?", but it's not so. "What was it about?" she asks instead.

Careful, now. "Over something small and silly. He's keeping something from me; that's all. Important stuff. To me, anyway."

Her delicate eyebrows go up, wrinkling the smooth expanse of her forehead. "'He'?"

_Oops._ "Yeah. 'He'." Despite myself, a blush colors my cheeks. "Don't suppose you'd like to know who?"

She gives a soft snort and closes her books, setting her pencil off to the side. "I've seen him. The Crane boy from up the road. Who else would you wait on the front steps for as they walk by?"

Mom's more observant than I thought. From her expression, I can't tell if she's approving or disapproving of this relationship. "He's just a friend," I defend myself. "Or he was…" I'm itching to go upstairs, into the sweet solitude of my room.

She returns to her work. "Well, if he's a friend, shouldn't you forgive him? Or forgive each other? I don't know what your relationship is, but those are the basics."

Because of Falcone, she doesn't seem to question my social life much anymore. But all the same, she's right, and I hate to admit it. And now I feel almost guilty. _I still blame Jonathan. He doesn't want me, despite all we've been through._

I raise my slate-colored eyes to my mom's green ones. "I think he's going to be hard work though. He's cold. And prideful."

"You're not exactly a ray of sunshine either," Mom chuckles. Once more, her truthful tongue stings. "I wouldn't worry about it so much. Men are different from women; they get over things faster. Unless it's a broken heart."

"Not the case with Jonathan." I really want my room.

Mom waves a hand in the air. "Besides, it's Halloween. Take this small chance to expand your social circle beyond a nerdy boy who lives up the road."

I stiffen. "I'm your antisocial demon. Can I go upstairs now?" I fight to keep my voice steady.

Another hand wave as she returns to her planners. "You do whatever you want." My attitude doesn't bother her.

I tromp up the stairs, shaking my head but feeling slightly lighter that Mom knows about Jonathan and me. And she didn't even tease me about it like most mothers would have.

_I shouldn't have skipped my last classes…even if it is Friday._ I linger in the dark upstairs hallway, staring out one of the small circular windows. Sometimes I feel like part of the darkness. Especially when it matches parts of my mood.

_Oh Jonathan…_ I shouldn't be pining after him like a lovesick preteen girl. I'm almost eighteen-years-old. In fourteen days, to be exact. It hits me that life passes quickly.

I'm getting old; I'll be an adult. I don't feel like one.

It's only five o'clock. Strange, the day seems like it's been much longer. How dull.

I suppose I could try to contact fellow classmates and see what I missed today. Can't hurt, as much as I don't want to. I can call Kelly for fifth period and a boy named Philip Emory for fourth. They know me well enough. Philip and I don't speak outside of class though. Would it be weird for me to contact him?

Who cares? High school is temporary.

I hunt down a phonebook and flip on the hallway light. I'm finally appreciating the fact that Mom had a phone installed up here. I don't have to go back down the stairs.

I call Philip first. He's in a chipper mood and tells me I missed the handing out of a study guide for the next test. Inwardly, I cringe and ask if I'd be able to get it from the teacher on Monday. The answer is yes.

Kelly's next, and she yammers my ear off for half an hour, and I surprise myself by listening, though I try many times to politely say goodbye. In the last minute, she finally chirps about me missing the guidelines for a small project. Miserably, I say farewell and hang up the phone with a groan.

Bad day to skip school.

The nap had been worth it.

For the rest of the evening, I kill an hour writing a letter that my father will never receive. I take an envelope out of my drawer, write down the address, seal, and stamp it. I let my eyes stray to Dad's watch on my wrist.

_Damn Falcone._

I realize with horror that I'm not tired. Not tired at all. I still go to bed later in a pathetic attempt to rest on this Halloween night. Mostly, I alternate between reading, laying there, and pacing around my room. With each passing minute I feel more frustrated.

I think it's at about one in the morning, though, that everything changes.

I hear the crows; they haven't been active for a few months, and they're quiet but louder than they have been. I'm given a few clues as to what's happening.

I haven't heard voices from the Crane's. Normally, I do. Almost every night. Dread starts to pool in my stomach, and I curl up into a little ball, wishing I would lose consciousness.

The crows stop. Silence rings.

Then I hear it, even through my closed windows. The slam of a front door. I sit bolt upright in bed, body tense. After waiting a few minutes, I go over and yank up my window, ears straining at the night. Eyes seeing nothing but black and the faint glow of light from our yard. The chilly air seeps into my room.

Creaking. A booming slam. Like that of a heavy door.

"Oh no." My eyes are huge.

A front door closing once more. It's been so long since the last time.

The crows start up again. Their cawing is wild, raucous, terrifying, desperate, and the loudest I've ever heard.

"Jonathan," I whisper.

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><p><strong>AN: So the Doctor's new companion. I like her. A lot. Let's just say she's my favorite….now who all watched the Christmas special? All together now: MOFFAAAAT!**

**Anywho, some movie news. _Thor: The Dark World _is filming, and those set photos are out. No Loki yet. _Iron Man 3_ is going to rock. And what I'm excited for, personally, is _Star Trek: Into Darkness._** **Those trailers are out. I'm still watching it for Zachary Quinto as Spock, but Benedict Cumberbatch is a nice bonus as well.**

**The next chapter is going to be a doozy. By the way, David Bowie has a sexy speaking voice.**

**FOR ALL READERS! There's a poll on my profile now. A very important one that deals with ****Ames****' future. Leave your feedback.**

**Queston of the Day: What is your favorite insult or threat? C'mon, I know you use them…**

**Keep the reviews coming! I adore hearing from my readers. Share, favorite, etc, etc. 'Til next time!**


	31. Rest Calm

**A/N: So five months, huh? College. Life. That's all I have to say, but the college part is over. First year, under my belt. Sorry for the delay.**

**Go see _Iron Man 3._**

**Thanks to **Lil blue rose, OfficialLostGirl, areosmithlover, Guest, Wicked Little, CaitlinXcowz, Bgirl1, Pixie Petal, Guest, EmoSteve0w0, ALastDanceAtDawn, Deranged-eccentricity, SilhouetteGypsy, DoctorandAmyFan97, Glamour Addict, blackdye, anarchic equity, Bgirl111, Lord-Cas, X-PoisonCherry-X, Looking Into Oblivion, libwob, , h20, Miss Hanmyo, puternic, gothgirlstrikesagain, troy, Shrocken, , Guest, Invisible-Ayla, ShizukaRen-Hime, xxxjetgirlxxx, robyn1013, Arlena4815162342, AlainHotCoco1, emilypineapple, pourquoibella, linnie kinda spinnie, pandorasocks, C0nt0rt3dM1nd, Mockingbird's Purity, FattySkeleton, BANEHiwatari, Sherlock's-Avenging-THG, Knightrunner, Kagome Narome, My Beautiful Ending, ZenyZootSuit, rodeogirl2393, ShaydesofDarkness, Decepticon-silverstreak, thinkaboutit36, NeverQuiteAwake, Smiele, **and** ElektraMackenzie, ATLAsnaps-fan **for the reviews. You guys are fantastic!**

**My favorite insult or threats…I have a couple. "I will scoop out your liver and use it to write words on the walls." Or, "Bitch, I've got a bow and arrow; I will come in there and find you!" And lastly, "I will molest your brain and drink your spinal fluids." Favorite insult? I settle for calling people a gutless turd.**

**The poll is now closed. I will the reveal the decision in a future chapter. The people have spoken; you can't please everyone.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, but steal from me and I will rip out your eyes and piss on your brain.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-One: Rest Calm<strong>

_Within there's every little memory resting calm with me, _

_Resting in a dream,_

_Smiling back at me._

_The faces of the past keep calling me to come back home._

_Rest calm and remember me._

_**~Nightwish, Rest Calm**_

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><p>I don't hesitate; I scramble though the window and onto the tree. The rough calluses on my bare feet don't allow me to feel the grating tree bark as I clamber down the trunk. I'm moving so quickly and carelessly that the bark gouges the skin off my elbows and hands, and I don't feel the stinging pain. I don't think about how this is the coldest October night Gotham has had yet; I don't pause to consider the frost crunching on the grass as I leap down from the tree and jar the bones in my calves. Clad in sweatpants and a loose cotton shirt, it doesn't occur to me that I'm not appropriately dressed for the cold.<p>

As I take off at a dead sprint into the cornfield, only one thought, one name, runs through my mind, a repeating mantra in my head.

_Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan…_

Dry stalks of corn, long mowed down, bruise my feet and rip at my toes, but I don't care. I must get to him. My eyes stream from the cold wind.

_JonathanJonathanJonathanJonathanJonathan._

I race through the clearing with the scarecrow, not pausing to look at the weirdly comforting figure. By now, my chest is tight and my breathing comes in wheezes. An old memory. _Scarecrow! Scarecrow! Johnny Rake's a scarecrow!_

Jonathan was in trouble. For something BIG.

The air freezes my throat as the ground under my feet changes from dry dirt to frosted grass. _Don't think about what you're going to do, don't think about what you're going to do…_

Now that I'm in the Cranes' yard, the old barn looms before me. The crows are deafening now. I can see them. Circling and darting around the barn. My concern for my friend temporarily overcomes my fear of birds. With a killer stitch in my side, I'm sprinting so hard toward the barn that I nearly slam into the huge doors when I stop in front of it. I'm shaking; I'm shaking so badly my teeth are clattering against my cheeks. Whether it's from the fear of what I'm about to find or from the cold, I don't know. All I hear is the frenzied screeching of the crows.

I sling both hands into one of the door handles and haul my weight against it. I strain so forcefully to get it open I feel muscles in my arms and shoulders popping. I pull and pull and pull and pull and pull and pull and finally, _finally,_ the barn door begins to creep open with a groaning sound. With a cry, I stagger back as I succeed in yanking it ajar.

The moonlight floods the barn and lights a scene from my nightmares.

The smell is the first thing that hits. Musty and damp and rusty and salty. I cover my nose and mouth with a hand. I hear cawing, flapping wings. The moonlight illuminates air filled with glistening black feathers and shiny, beady eyes. I feel my body slowly becoming paralyzed by fear. They are swooping, flying, diving in a frenzy.

My brain and my eyes battle against me.

I left Jonathan once; I'm not going to leave him again.

I stumble into the barn and see the crows' focus point in the middle of the damp floor. Jonathan is on his knees, hunched over with his arms covering his head. He's not screaming; the crows the only things I hear. _Screaming just aggravates them,_ he said once.

Silent torment.

Some unexplainable emotion wells up in me, and I rush forward into the swarm.

Immediately, rustling and my own shrieks fill my ears. I am blinded. Black, black everywhere. I drop to my knees and scramble toward the only color I see: Jonathan's bloodstained white shirt.

Small warm bodies buffet my form, sharp talons pick at my skin. Thick beaks tangle in my hair. My cheek rings with pain, and I know my cheekbone has been clawed. Red eyes. I start to cry and my breaths are quick and icy.

As my hands close down on Jonathan's skinny upper arms, I start to scream. And scream. And scream.

My true fear is showing. Fear is all I feel, and I'm practically holding him.

Before I close my eyes, I catch a glimpse of Jonathan's face, blood-soaked hair plastered across his pale cheeks and forehead. There's an expression on his face I've never seen before, and it's indescribable. Almost empowered.

As my eyes close, as my body struggles, as I scream my throat raw, we switch roles, and suddenly he's holding _me_ and coming to _my_ rescue.

All I want to do is curl up in a ball and kick and fight and slap and bite and scream.

I think my throat is beginning to bleed.

Somehow, we pull each other to our feet, support each other. Or he's supporting me. The mouse blood on Jonathan sticks to me and smears on my face as I bury my head into his bony shoulder.

_Never would I have thought, never would I have thought…we'd have this much…touching._

Demons. Demons. Demons. Red eyes. Talons. Demons.

We collapse into a heap in the moonlight just outside the barn doors. I feel Jonathan struggle up and stagger forward. But I stay on my knees and scream and scream and scream, swatting my body, clawing at the air. I'm sticky with blood and cold sweat and black feathers and tears. The droplets are streaming down my face; phlegm drips from my nose.

I'm a madwoman. I'm exposed before the night sky.

My body shakes with uncontrollable spasms, and I feel like I've been infected with a disease.

Jonathan jerks back toward me, a hand clutching his side. "Ames. Ames. Ames!" Wide concerned eyes. "Ames, there's nothing!" Closer. "They're—"

It's only a glint of destroyed glasses, but I see an eye, a glittering beak. I lash out and slap Jonathan across the face. Hard. He stumbles back and I crumple in on myself.

_Oh god, I've hurt him. I've hurt him. I've hurt him._ I cry again but for a different reason. My spasms calm as my regretful howls fill the sky. _I hit him, no better than his grandmother. I thought he was a crow and I hit him…hit him…hit him…_ The disgust toward myself is so strong I heave and nearly vomit.

I can form coherent thoughts again.

I stay curled in my fetal position, hands trembling and a shuddering gasp escaping every once in a while. I'm hiding my face with my forearms and shivering with cold on the night of the first of November. The crows must be back in their rafters; I don't hear them anymore. I can't hear anything actually. Only myself.

I don't dare open my puffy eyes for the fear that Jonathan has left me here. I left him once, didn't I? It would only be fair.

My fears are put to rest a few seconds later by the sound of frosted grass crunching and the feel of someone crouching next to me. Cautiously so. "Ames. They're gone. The crows are gone."

Jonathan's voice.

I stay in a ball and keep my eyes closed, curling my bare toes against the cold, soaked straw stuck between them. Remaining silent, I allow a few minutes to pass to get my thoughts in order, my breathing regular, and my body calm. Jonathan doesn't leave. After he saw me like that, how can I face him? And smacking him down on top of everything else he's gone through tonight.

The gash on my cheek stings. The hand I slapped him with burns. I feel limp and useless. Drained.

More time passes. Finally, I speak.

"I'm sorry."

I'm not sure what for. Slapping him or revealing my true phobia of birds. He must think I'm a complete nutter with all that psychology background he has. I'm ashamed most of all.

Beside me, Jonathan snorts. "A reflex is a perfectly normal reaction. You having nothing to apologize for."

I shake my head and the grass scratches my tearstained, snot-covered cheek. I feel ready to cry again. "Not that," I choke out.

And there it is. His hand on my arm. He's touching me. Tentatively, but he's touching me and providing a form of comfort. _Freely._ His next words are ones I won't forget.

"Your fear is beautiful."

I pick my head off the ground, open my eyes, and look at him. I really look at him.

Dark hair and pale skin drenched with blood. His glasses are flecked with it. The moon reflecting off him makes his paleness ghostly. I would almost call it a haunting site as he crouches down next to me _with his hand on my arm._ His hair drips down into his face but for once it fails to cover up his eyes.

He's gazing down at me with disgust and pity and admiration and a few other things I can't name. His eyes, those pretty blue eyes, are fairly glowing. I'm captivated; both of us are locked in this stare. He's so very close.

"Your fear is beautiful," he repeats. "You came in after me, despite that fear, to help me. It's beautiful. He pauses. "I thank you."

He removes his hand but stays next to me. My heart is hammering out a desperate rhythm between my ribs. I…I don't know what to think; I can't.

I swallow thickly. "All right," I say finally. Still weak, I roll the rest of the way onto my back and sit up, small puffs of breath clouding the air. Sweat and blood on our bodies capture the cold and make the night worse. Jonathan starts forward to help me up, but I'm on my unsteady feet before he does. I'm calm but feel sick. _I didn't fail him. I saved him this time. He saved me._

A gust of wind whips through my thin shirt, and I shiver, half-expecting to see a cloud of black feathers at the edge of my vision. I blink rapidly to put the fear behind me. Jonathan watches with an intense and almost _fond_ look. It's unnerving.

Jonathan's eyes flit to his house. "Well. I suppose I should go back—"

"You're not going in there. Over my dead body." The seriousness of my voice frightens me. Without quite knowing what I'm doing, I turn my back to the barn and Jonathan and march toward the cornfield. Back toward my house. I place a hand over my chest in an attempt to still my thundering heart. I can't believe it.

Jonathan is following me. He doesn't ask. He doesn't say anything at all. He knows.

I'm very twitchy and jumpy; I constantly check over my shoulder to make sure he's still there. It takes me a moment to realize Jonathan is barefoot as well.

When we're in the cornfield, I'm compelled to stop in the clearing and look up at the scarecrow. It grins at me in approval. Jonathan stops beside me and again says nothing. He stares at it as well. I sense that the both of us are reliving a memory of a time only a few months back, though it feels like a lifetime to where we are now. The night I found out. The night I left him behind.

We gaze at the scarecrow's odd beauty for an endless amount of time while the cold wind rustles our freezing and drying hair. We feel safe.

I hear a crow in the distance behind us.

Jerking involuntarily, I wordlessly continue our way. It seems too quickly that we come to stand below the tree next to my window. I refuse to think about what I'm doing.

"Can you climb?" I can't look at him.

"Yes."

I go up first, surprised I can grip the thick branches with my frozen hands. I had left the window open, and I gladly crawl through it into my room's welcoming warmth. Thanking the heavens my room is somewhat clean, I grab an extra pillow off my bed, along with a blanket, and chuck it onto the floor beside my bed._ Dear god, he's actually going to spend the night in my room._ I'm horrified at myself once I admit to the thought. I'm blushing furiously. He couldn't go back to his house and it's too cold for him to stay outside. Does he have any other options?

The burning slash on my cheek reminds me that I should probably tend to my booboo. Luckily, I avoid an awkward or nonexistent conversation by leaving my bedroom just as Jonathan is swinging his legs over the windowsill. Out in the upstairs hallway, I make a beeline for the bathroom.

The bright light hurts my eyes when I turn it on. Cringing, I step in front of the mirror above the sink. I don't recognize the person staring back.

There are small cuts all over my face, with one bleeding gash on my left cheekbone. My eyes are swollen and wild from fear and tears. The storminess brewing in them scares me. My arms are scratched, my ash brown air is a mess, all tangled and matted. Red splotches of blood, from me or Jonathan, coat my skin and appear as though they've been sponged on.

I look like a refugee or a rape victim.

Furiously blinking back another wave of tears, I grab a washcloth and wet it. It scrapes against my skin as I roughly scrub away the blood. I graze the wound on my face many times, but I can't seem to get clean enough. All I can see is red and more red.

I finally throw the washcloth into the sink in defeat and plop down onto the closed toilet seat. I glance up and nearly go into cardiac arrest.

Jonathan is standing in the doorway, looking at me with absolute pity in his eyes.

Swallowing in shame, I cast my eyes down to my hands and stare at my chewed up fingernails. I sense Jonathan moving across the bathroom, and I hear the medicine cabinet above the sink swing open. Rummaging, and then a pair of legs enter my line of sight. The smell of hydrogen peroxide makes my nose twitch as it's absorbed into a soft white cotton ball. Cold fingers under my chin, lifting my face.

I meet Jonathan's eyes as he takes care of me. I know the fear and panic are still in mine. He sees it.

His pupils are dilated. His fingers leave my chin.

My face smarts as Jonathan cleans the large gash and small cuts scattered across my skin. He uses the very tips of his fingers to treat me, almost as if he's trying to avoid as much skin contact as possible now. To finish up, he uses antibiotic cream.

_Why is my heart beating so fast?_

And then for no reason, tears drip from my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I thought I couldn't possibly cry any more.

Upon seeing the droplets, Jonathan jerks away from me as if they've burned his skin like acid. The supplies drop to the floor, and his sudden absence from the bathroom leaves me feeling empty. I rise up slowly on shaking legs, bend over to pick up the peroxide and ointment, and put them back in their place. Sighing heavily, I leave the bathroom and wipe the rest of my tears away.

My window is still open when I get back to my bedroom. After I close it, I crawl into bed and curl up in a ball. Jonathan is silent and awake, settled on the floor. We two, together in my room. It's an awkward situation, and both of us are too wide awake to fall asleep, as much as we may want to.

My mind starts racing. _You saved him. He saved you. You brought him back to your house. He cleaned you up. How can you say it doesn't mean anything? He'd never do it for anyone else. Why are you so special?_

I'm never going to sleep like this. I wonder what thoughts are going through Jonathan's head.

I don't care if he doesn't like it. I'm singing. It's the only way I can calm myself.

I quietly hum a few of the opening instrumental notes of Pink Floyd's "Goodbye, Blue Sky". No sound from him. I continue with the soft vocalizations; I've always liked this song. It's almost a disturbing lullaby. I pause before I sing the words. I'm trying to soothe us both.

"_Did-did-did-did-you see the frightened ones? Did-did-did-did-you hear the falling bombs? Did-did-did-did-you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter when the promise of brave new world unfurled beneath a clear blue sky?"_

It's a haunting sound, and I'm trying to relax us, lulling us into a false sense of safety with the cruel world just outside my room.

Jonathan's breathing has slowed and is carefully controlled. He's listening.

I vocalize softly again in my throat and revel in the vibrations. I don't sing anymore, but I have no problems with this. _"Did-did-did-did-you see the frightened ones? Did-did-did-did-you hear the falling bombs? The flames are all long gone, but the pain lingers on._

_Goodbye, blue sky. Goodbye, blue sky. Goodbye. Goodbye."_

I fall quiet and wonder if he's sleeping yet. This isn't a sleepover where we open up to each other and talk about life and silly things. We are seniors in high school and this is the real world now. I've never had a boy in my room before. Nope. Not thinking about it like that.

"Jonathan, are you awake?"

"Yes."

"All right." I exhale. "Do you want to talk?"

"I have nothing to say, so not particularly."

"Fine." I don't know his entire back-story, but I don't need to because I know enough. Conceived out of wedlock, abandoned by his mother, abused by his grandmother. Friends with me, and as a result, I've told him everything about my past. Honestly, his mother up and vanished, and no one knows much about her. How much does _he_ know? Does he even know who she was? Was he left as a baby? As a child? There's really only one question I can ask that will answer most of these.

I gulp. "Jonathan, did you know your mother's name?"

Five minutes of silence. It could have been ten for how long it seemed. Filled with quiet breathing and pounding hearts. His answer will confirm if he knew her, if he remembers her at all.

"My mother's name was Rebecca."

_Was._ Rebecca Crane. Her name _was_ Rebecca Crane. Meaning she is no longer alive. Suddenly a wave of exhaustion hits me, and I let my eyes flutter shut. I sink, sink, down, down. I actually don't fall asleep until an hour or so later, and I hear something within that time frame that's adorable, unexpected, and little bit odd for the person in question.

Jonathan is out like a light. Positively asleep. And he's snoring. _SNORING_. Softly but it's still snoring. It seems a bit out of character for him, but the small sounds make him a little more human and make me giggle. How sweet.

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><p>Jonathan's gone when I wake up in the morning. Though I was expecting it, I'm still a little crestfallen. What would I have done though? I'm glad it's Saturday. Blinking against the sunlight streaming through my window, I unfurl in bed and stretch out like a cat. What a weird night. I'm guessing it's about ten in the morning… <em>Huh? What's that?<em>

I turn my head toward my window and squint at what's sitting on the windowsill. Odd. Very odd.

It's a small stuffed rabbit. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, get up, and walk over to it. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands as it stares at me with black glass eyes. The surface of them is scuffed. It's raggedy brown fur is by no means soft, and one of the long floppy ears is partly torn off. _It's a distressed-looking thing, _I think as I examine a small bald spot on the rabbit's patched chest. It's a child's item of comfort, abused through the years. I run a finger between its eyes and down its faded nose. Where did it come from?

I know.

It's a thank-you present. I take the bedraggled animal back to bed with me and set it upright on my pillow. I stare at it for an hour.

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><p>The next two weeks go by and Halloween night isn't brought up between us once. I think it's because we both know what happened, and there is nothing left to say. Every single day, I'm haunted by the hand-shaped bruise I left on his cheek among all the scratches. No one, not even Mom, said anything about the cut on mine. Our relationship remains the same for the most part. If anything has changed, it's physical closeness. Accidental touches between us don't seem to bother Jonathan as much as they used to.<p>

I haven't heard his grandmother for about a week now. Jonathan won't say anything to me about her. It confuses me; I've seen him at his worst. I find that I care less and less about what happens to Geraldine Crane, and the stuffed rabbit hasn't left my bed since I received it. The ratty thing has become important to me. Jonathan hasn't said anything about that either.

A triumphant fanfare announcing a news program blasts me from my thoughts. I look up and across the table to the small television in the kitchen and see something about a breaking police report across the screen. One of many. I reach next to me for the remote and turn it off, slowly chewing my way through the piece of yellow cake sitting on a small plate in front of me.

Mom, next to me, glances up from her slice. "Something wrong?"

I swallow a bite and shake my head. "I don't need depressing news today. The cake's good. Thanks for making it."

"You're welcome."

November 14th. My eighteenth birthday. And I don't feel any different. Nothing special has happened. No birthday gift from Jonathan (not that I was expecting any; I count the rabbit) and small practical presents my mother. Birthdays have never been something we've made a huge deal about here. We look at them as surviving another year in this city ever since Dad's been out of our lives. We've passed that anniversary recently, too.

I finish my cake and walk the dish over to the sink and stare out the small window in front of me. Dark. Time changes never fail to baffle me.

There's a rapid knocking at the front door.

I drop my fork into the sink as Mom starts in surprise. "Who could be visiting at this hour?"

_Falcone could be,_ I think but immediately dismiss the thought and shrug instead. "I dunno. I guess I'll check." I have so many possibilities in my head and I'm tossing them all aside. You need to be careful about answering the door at night, especially in Gotham. I open the door anyway.

Officer Jim Gordon is standing behind it.

"Miss Manson." He nods his head.

"Officer." I eye him warily.

Mom's voice sounds from the dining room. "Ames, who is it?"

I don't answer and keep my attention on Gordon, my heart jumping in my throat. His eyes scan over the nearly healed gash on my left cheek, and I cross my arms. "What brings you here tonight, Officer?"

My entire world is turned upside down.

Gordon looks me in the eyes. "We got him, missy."

My mouth falls open. My head spins. "What?"

"Carmine Falcone is in custody. And we have you to thank. Your tips paid off."

I sag against the doorframe and press a hand to my forehead. "I-I can't think. I don't know what to think. You said you would call…"

Officer Gordon smiles kindly and his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I figured telling you in person would be a better birthday present than a phone call."

My legs have turned to jelly and I can feel relief. Overwhelming relief. It's over. Shit, I'm tearing up. Now I'm crying. And now I'm giving Officer Gordon a hug.

Even if it was improper to be hugging someone not quite thirty years my senior, I still feel him pat me awkwardly on the back until I let go. He leaves with, "Happy birthday, Miss Manson. We'll keep you updated." I watch the man disappear into the frosty November night. It's over.

How? Just how?

I can't believe it. I've got tears of joy streaming down my face when I come back into the dining room, and I'm trembling violently. It's over. It's all over.

Mom is alarmed. "Ames, what's wrong?"

It's time to tell her what's right.

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you liked. I don't have much to say other than the pace of the story is going to pick up from here on out.**

**May is draining me for money. _Iron Man 3, the Great Gatsby, _and_ Star Trek into Darkness._ I'm pumped. For those who have seen _Iron Man 3, _what did you think of the twist?**

**Watch _Game of Thrones. _Watch _Doctor Who._**

**Question of the Day: Do you have an unusual ability or talent?**

**Until next time! It'll be much quicker, I promise.**


	32. Brown Wine, Turpentine

**A/N: So yeah. I'm late; I know. I had a lot of stuff happen this year. My anxiety disorder kicked into overdrive, I got fired from my job of three years, and this semester of college kicked my ass. I'm doing a complete edit and readthrough of my story here and I'm working on getting those chapters up at well. I know I've probably lost a lot of readers by having this so late, and I deserve it.**

**I have a lot of people to respond to and credit, but I'm going to eliminate this because of the time it takes up. Not going to lie, it kinda kills my motivation. But I hope you caught the stuffed rabbit from _Batman Begins_ in the last chapter.**

**My unusual ability or talent includes spitting, waking myself up from nightmares, hardly ever getting sick, and the ability to belch at will. But here's the chapter and I hope it doesn't suck too badly.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, so calm your tits.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Two: Brown Wine, Turpentine<strong>

_Goodbye, olive sky._

_I am crying all the time._

_There, there; don't despair._

_We will find your sheep somewhere._

_**~The Dresden Dolls, The Sheep Song**_

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><p>I'm able to breathe easily for the first time in years. I'm surprised at how many concerns of mine are gone now that Falcone is incarcerated. Even supporting details, such as Don being hit by Jonathan's car, fade from my mind as Christmas break fast approaches. And then before I know it, I'll be on my last semester of high school. Last week, I'd gotten accepted into Gotham University with a decent ACT of 27 and was offered a nice academic scholarship in return for above average high school grades. Major? Undecided.<p>

_Jonathan doesn't know what to do with my happiness,_ I think gleefully as I shelve a book. _I'm usually so moody and pessimistic and unpredictable with my feelings; now I'm stable. _I climb down my ladder and grab another novel off my little cart. "I'm the happiest I've been in six years," I say aloud. I make sure my white button-down is covering my lower back before I push my cart and ladder down a ways. I climb back up.

When I told Mom about Falcone's capture, she didn't believe me. Ten minutes later, she still didn't. It wasn't until she called the Gotham City Police Department and confirmed it that she accepted it. Afterwards, she promptly went to bed and cried tears of happiness.

And Jonathan… I chuckle. He doesn't know how to handle it, but when I told _him_, he seemed pleased in his Jonathan sort of way. Now if only his troubles would leave. Ever since, I saved him from the crows, things have been better between us. Much better. I could almost call us friends now. Good friends, I mean. It's amazing how things can change in a little over a month. We're not buddy-buddy, but we're almost amiable around each other.

I climb back down my ladder and grab another book. I'm so deep in thought I don't notice Mr. Kipling stride up to me. "Ames, you have a visitor." I jump and whack my shin on my cart. Ever so clumsy, I drop my book.

"Troubled?" Mr. Kipling asks as he watches my antics. I sigh and bend down to pick up the tome.

"Best I've been in a while, actually," I say with a smile, cradling the book in my arm. "What did you say about a visitor?" My shin throbs but at least I didn't fall off the ladder again.

Mr. Kipling scratches his head. "I told him to wait a few shelves back."

_Him?_

"Say," he continues, peering at me over the top of his spectacles, "when are you on Christmas break for school?"

The glory! "Tomorrow, actually," I reply. "I can do full time the day after."

Mr. Kipling makes note. "Fine by me, dear."

"Don't forget to give me a few days off, all right?" I joke. "You old slave driver."

Mr. Kipling waves me away and continues to amble down the rows of bookshelves. "Now don't keep your young man waiting. He looked impatient," he calls over his shoulder.

Again, who?

I stroll back a few rows and peer down each one. No one, no one, no one, and then a little preteen boy laughing his head off over an adult novel he found. His giggles echo.

I stop and put a finger to my lips. "Shhh! Silence in the library!" He scampers off and takes his book elsewhere.

I continue down two more rows of shelves before I glance into another and see a skinny figure with its back to me. "Beg your pardon? Are you the young man Mr. Kipling was referring to?"

As he turns around, long, unclean hair flops into familiar eyes. I grin. "Hello, Jonathan."

He nods at me, and I walk toward him. I'm surprised he's here, to be honest, but I'm not as completely floored at I would've been a few months ago. "Funny seeing you here," I say simply.

Jonathan cocks his head to the side. "I'm not allowed to visit ?" he retorts lightly. I could almost say he's teasing but that wouldn't be like him.

"No, I'm surprised your grandmother isn't popping a neck vein." I only realize now that I'm still holding the book from earlier. My arm is getting tired.

"In case you haven't noticed, Grandmother has been a bit, ah, indisposed." The words tumble easily from his full, shapely lips. That's right. There's been no screaming for a few weeks. It would be enough to make me suspicious if it wasn't for the fact that her car vanished every Sunday morning for church and returned an hour or so later. I've recently begun to wonder if Jonathan is capable of doing away with someone.

_Don. Oh, yeah. That was a thing. Still haven't heard._

I quirk one corner of my mouth up. "I _have_ noticed." Leaning back against a bookshelf, I ask sarcastically, "So why are you here to visit little old me?" I find myself grateful for looking decent today. White, long-sleeved blouse, black pants, hair in a low ponytail. _I wonder if Jonathan's noticed._

"What says I'm here for you? I'm not permitted to go to a library of my own free will?"

"Yes, you are, but you asked for me," I point out somewhat defiantly. Jonathan raises his eyebrows but doesn't deny it. "Why then?"

He folds his arms and leans next to me, pushing his owlish glasses up importantly. "I have news."

I almost nudge him with my elbow. "You met a centaur? You discovered your bellybutton?"

Jonathan rolls his eyes at my ridiculousness and gives an exasperated huff. He definitely only tolerates me sometimes. "No. I've been given an opportunity." He's been using more contractions lately. Neat.

"Such as?"

"A job shadow. I can't necessarily intern as of yet because I'm inexperienced in the field." He scowls. "But it's beneficial nonetheless."

I smile at him. "Well congratulations! Where at?" Vaguely, I wonder when I'm supposed to go back to work.

His blue eyes glint as he puffs his chest out slightly and looks important. "Arkham Asylum. I'll be tailing one of the psychiatrists. Normally, they don't allow it but I was very convincing."

I blink. I blink again. Arkham Asylum. _Arkham Asylum._ I frown and ask, "Are you going to be safe?"

Nonchalantly, he responds, "Oh, I'm fairly certain I will be."

_Then_ it hits me. Arkham Asylum. Dad!

I flush and shake with new excitement. Jonathan notices, and the genius that he is understands it right away. "Your father?"

I nod vigorously and stammer, "Yes-yes! Yes." I lower my voice from the squeak it became. "Can you ask about him? And in the off-chance you come across him, tell him his wife and daughter love him?" I'm asking a huge favor. I only hope Jonathan likes me enough to follow through. "We haven't seen him in six years."

Jonathan looks surprised. "He was imprisoned six years ago, yes? Hasn't there been visitations?"

I scoff and shake my head. "No."

Curious, he inquires, "What crime did Falcone frame him for?"

I wipe my suddenly runny nose and reply, "It was a brief summary, but I think it was mass homicide. Children involved. Planned alone, of course. Carried out alone."

"Of course."

"There's no chance of him getting out. Ever." I look at Jonathan hopefully. "Jon…can you? Please?" _He's been letting me call him "Jon" a lot recently. No annoyance or reaction to it._

After a moment of heavy deliberation, he nods and adds softly in his cool voice (which has become more mature as of late), "I believe I can twist this to suit your needs."

I close my eyes and breathe pure relief. "Thank you, Jon." I stare at his passive face. "This starts two days from now?"

"Yes."

I don't bother to ask what his grandmother makes of this job shadow. Too indisposed to do anything about it, I suppose. I raise my wrist to my eyes and look at Dad's watch on the underside. "We've been talking a while. I should get back to work." I shift the heavy book to my other arm.

"Enjoy yourself." We walk to the end of the row of shelves and part ways in the main aisle, him in one direction, me in the other.

I quickly remind him to leave me a note before I disappear back into the tall shelves, but I never get one.

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><p><em>I always forget that Christmas vacation usually turns out to be like this, <em>I groan to myself, sitting home after work, day after day, absolutely bored to death with nothing to do other than watch the snow fall outside our living room window. Break is wonderful for the first few days, but then nothing but sheer boredom takes over.

Nothing happens on Christmas for us. Mom and I have a lack of relatives so all we do is make a nicer-than-usual supper, open a few gifts we've bought for each other, and totter off to bed. I can't imagine Jonathan's is much better.

Mom does like to hang Christmas lights around the house though. Inside. I tilt my head up and let them glow colorfully against my eyelids. They're pretty in how they reflect in the window with snow falling like cotton balls. With Falcone gone, life hasn't been as exciting per say, but it's wonderful for it to be easy for once. Things are coming together.

Mom walks into the living room. I know that she, for one, is grateful for my improvement as well as feeling a little safer. She isn't as uptight.

_I wonder if Jonathan's followed through on my request. He seemed really sincere. For him._

"How are you, honey?" she asks as she sits down in one of the recliners and turns the television on to some late night news channel.

I keep looking out the window. "I'm fine." I remind myself that things can indeed be so much worse. I get up from the couch. "I was actually just going to go upstairs." I eyeball Dad's watch in the dim light. 11:30pm. Definitely time for bed. "Goodnight, Mom." And for what seems to be the first time in a while, I walk over, bend down, and hug her flabbergasted body. She doesn't really respond; she more or less doesn't know what to do with her hands.

I pull away after a brief moment and leave the room. Once upstairs, I crack my window open to let in a little crisp, cold air. It's refreshing. I strip down and pull on pajamas before settling under my warm blankets with a very slight feeling of dread. My body is thrumming with energy, and I'm most definitely awake and restless.

It takes me three hours to fall asleep. It's maddening and I wake up bleary-eyed when my alarm goes off at 8am. Work from 9 to 5. This has been my life and will be for a few more weeks. I kick off my covers, close my window, and realize I have a bout of painful itching in the last toes of my feet. After scratching violently for a bit, the sensation fades. My pinky toes feel a bit larger than usual, but I toss the concern aside as I get ready for work.

I arrive at the library pretty dead on my feet, and the old lady working one of the front desks gives me a funny look, almost as if she's expecting me to slack off. I go to the room upstairs and punch my time card sluggishly. Something feels very off today. The atmosphere of this place is all wrong. Maybe it's just me.

But I prepare my little book cart and am told to run some errands for Mr. Kipling before I start my normal job. They take an hour to do. Huffing slightly, I return to my cart, examine the books on it, and decide to start in the science fiction rows. I push my cart past the odd few people sitting in the comfy armchairs in the reading area. Surprisingly, they're my age. _Do they have jobs?_ I wonder as I move on.

Once I reach my desired section, I grab the ladder from the end of the row and slide it to the other end. I grab _War of the Worlds_ and ascend, yawning and almost falling off the ladder on my way up. It's going to be a long day. I feel drunk off my tiredness. Tipsy. Is that possible?

It's around an hour later though that my feet act up again, almost causing me to plummet from a height again. My right pinky toe throbs and hurts in an itchy way. Like a fire, it starts also in my left pinky toe and on both feet it spreads to all toes except my big ones. Once safely on the ground, I stamp my feet and squash my toes against the inside of my shoes to relieve the itching. It starts up again two minutes later, and the sensation is so maddening that I almost cry. I repeat my earlier actions to alleviate it but to no avail.

_I CAN'T TAKE IT!_ I cry internally as the itching pain starts once more with a fury. _WHAT THE SHIT!_ I flop onto the floor between the bookshelves and pull off my shoes and socks and gape at what my eyes fall upon.

Both my pinky toes are red, shiny, and swollen to at least one size larger than usual. Having my shoes and socks off feels absolutely _heavenly._ On a closer look, I see tiny, raised, red bumps on all my toes and spreading to my foot. _What. Is. Wrong. With. Me._ I flex my toes and the air flowing around them helps in their relief.

Unfortunately, this is where Mr. Kipling finds me after few minutes later. "What in heaven?"

I can't even spring to my feet. "I'm sorry; I couldn't function…" I wiggle my toes at him. He actually comes over, bends down, and squints at them. "It started this morning and has been itching and hurting ever since." I wave a hand at my feet. "Now it doesn't only hurt on the surface. It's almost underneath. I don't know how it started."

Mr. Kipling sighs heavily. "Put some antifungal cream on that when you get home, young lady. For now, I'm sorry that you have to keep working, but I'll let you work barefoot. No need to make you more miserable." I gawk at him. "I've had children, you know. This happened to my daughters quite often."

My boss is swell.

"Oh, by the way, your young man is here again." My jaw hits the floor. "Ten minutes is what you're allowed. You're lucky it's been a few days." It's adorable when he tries to act strict.

I'm able to spring to my feet now. _Jonathan? He's here? He must have good news. Dad!_ I'm very excited. I see him in the main aisle, but as I get closer, there is something very wrong about his face. It's too composed. Too carefully composed. Jonathan raises an eyebrow at my bare feet but doesn't question once he sees what condition my toes are in.

"This feels like hell," I say, pointing to them. I smile despite it. "So how's the job shadow going?"

Jonathan holds his head high. "Fantastically, actually." In those two words, he sounds the most passionate I've ever heard him. I think someone's found their calling.

I take a few steps toward him until I'm fairly close, and he doesn't even flinch as I peer at his cheekboned face eagerly. His blue eyes scorch from under his eyelashes as he gazes up at me. Yes. _Gazes_. My cheerfulness waivers. _Something is wrong…_

"Did you see my dad? Hear about him? How is he?" I ask anxiously.

And then Jonathan Crane, who had until recently considered me one of his enemies, looks straight into my soul and delivers the hardest news I've ever had to hear in my life.

"Your father is dead."

I chuckle at his strained face. "Stop it, Jon. Be serious. How is he?"

"He's dead."

I positively snort with laughter. "No, really, how is he?"

Jonathan watches my denial without the faintest clue as to how he should react. "Ames, he's dead."

I'm hiccupping now, and my brain has gone numb, except for _NONONONONONONONO._ I frown and shove his shoulder. "Jon, stop being mean! It's not funny! Tell me, how is he?!" My voice rises to a shriek.

_NONONONONONONONO._

Jonathan grabs my upper arms and gives me a rough shake as the tears start to drip down my face. "Ames Manson, Damian Reilly, also known as Damian Manson, your father, is dead and has been for four years." He releases me and I fall onto the carpet.

"Nooo," I moan. It's the first time I've ever seen Jonathan look truly sorry.

_It can't be._

_It CAN'T be._

_NONONONONONONONO._

My dreams, all the times I've imagined that I would see Dad again, crumble into ashes and blow away. As the sobs rack my body, memories flash through my brain. All those letters I wrote…four years of nothing. With trembling fingers, I unfasten Dad's watch from my wrist and cradle it to my chest. I'm finally able to rasp, "How?"

Jonathan towers above me. "I wasn't told. Think about it, Ames. On the insanity plea, he would have had to put on a façade for years! How long were you expecting him to last?"

"But they didn't tell the family," I mumble. Jonathan tries to interrupt, but I cut him off with a raised voice. "They DIDN'T. TELL. THE FAMILY!"

"Keep your voice down," he says calmly.

My grip on the watch tightens. "Ohhh, I bet you were just _itching_ to deliver the news," I spit at him. "To see me cower on my knees before you?"

"No—"

"To see my fears come to the surface? Oh you are a _fantastic_ friend!" I know it's not his fault but I'm lashing out despite.

"Ames, I—"

I'm done here. I stand up, stumble, and make my way back to my row to collect my shoes and socks. People stare at me as I charge past Jonathan in the main aisle, and he stares at my back as I leave him behind in my trail of tears.

_Four years…_

I find Mr. Kipling and tell him my news, completely uncomposed. I punch out, grab my coat, and I'm gone out into the cold air.

_NONONONONONONONO._

I fumble my keys as I try to jab them into Black Jack's ignition with trembling hands, tears streaming down my face. _Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad. I'll never see you._ I feel a dark haze wash over me, and I find myself unable to care about anything anymore.

There is no God. There can't be if he allowed something like this to happen. I understand Jonathan's loss of faith. The feeling of abandonment accompanying events like these is too great.

I drive and I don't care where I go. I can barely see the road as it is. I end up putting myself in the Narrows, of all the places I could've hypnotically taken myself. This seems to happen more often than not. I see black shadows, black-clothed ninjas, everywhere but I don't even wonder about them. I park in front of that bashed grocery store, now boarded up in the dim light. I give no thought to lurking druggies, rapists, and murderers as I stagger out of my truck. My vision comes in flashes as I propel myself forward and collapse against the side of the grocery store, the side right next to an alley.

I tilt my head to the smoggy sky and howl my grief, screaming bloody murder, rocking back and forth. I'm barely aware of someone coming and standing next to me. Almost as if he or she is keeping watch and protecting me in my despair.

Once my sobs are reduced to hiccups, the person finally speaks.

"So, why the tears?"

I glance up through puffy eyes at the familiar voice to see Edward, my riddling boy, staring down at me with a concerned, extremely caring look. I'm not sure how to react to it.

"Go away," I mumble.

"I'm not going to do it. I shall defy you!" Edward folds his arms over his chest stubbornly. He looks the same. Same sleek auburn hair, same green parachute jacket, same friendly face. The only thing different is he's wearing a pair of obnoxiously purple mittens.

I sniffle. "Aren't you cold?"

He shrugs good-naturedly. "You build up an immunity." He slides down the wall to sit next to me. "I guess since you won't tell me what's wrong, can I at least say you're never alone?"

I break down and tell Edward everything. This boy I barely know seems to know me better than myself. I tell him my whole past, about Jonathan, and the news about my father.

"It's cruel," he tells me, rubbing my back, "for you to have been so happy and to have it so quickly snatched from you."

My tears have frozen into little salty streaks on my face. "Jonathan was the one who told me the news." Despite everything, I'm feeling a little better. "I know the whole world's not a bad place and that not all people are cruel. I know that. But why is it so hard to believe?"

"It just is." Edward then asks, "How did your friend find out about your father?"

I rub my hands together to keep warm. It's starting to snow. "Jonathan was doing a job shadow." I give a bitter smile—god, I'm such an actor.

Edward's eyes sparkle as he chuckles at me. "Why do you say his name like that?"

I blink. "Like what?"

"Well, every time you do, you get the stink-eye."

"I do not!" I automatically protest. Edward raises an eyebrow. "Um, I guess he's kind of a cold bastard." Edward raises his other eyebrow. I nudge him with my elbow. "This is the part where you agree with me."

He nudges me back. "I was thinking it in my heart."

I get a warm feeling, but my legs are starting to cramp so I stand up and shake them to get my blood flowing. Then I stomp my feet. The itching has subsided.

Edward watches me in amusement. "Keep doing that and someone might toss you a penny."

I stop. "What are you doing in the Narrows anyway? We were in a different part of the city last time."

Edwards stands up next to me. "I'll ask you the same thing."

"I guess I just drove here. I wasn't paying attention," I answer.

"Are you suicidal?"

I frown "I don't think so. What about you? You're too nice to be in this part of Gotham."

He smiles brightly. "You think I'm nice?"

I blush. Actually blush. "Well, yes."

"Woohoo!" he celebrates. "As for why I'm in the Narrows, I'll never tell," he teases. A pause. "Sooo…how about a riddle?"

Shaking my head, I groan. "No, please. Not today."

"Usually I'd be offended but with you, I understand."

"Is this something you normally do? Asking strangers riddles?" I look at him in wonder.

He tilts his head. "Only certain strangers, I suppose. I had a big book of riddles as a kid. Memorized them all."

I don't inquire any further about his childhood. Why he's here, why he's alone. Does he have family? Siblings? Parents? What happened to him? Why isn't he in school? How has he managed to stay alive? But I keep my mouth shut. It's not my place to ask.

Out of nowhere. "Say, Ames, what time is it?" I start to raise my wrist to check the time, but he does it himself, grabbing my hand, pulling my coat sleeve back, and turning my arm to see Dad's watch on the underside of my wrist. "One in the afternoon. I've got places to be." He turns my wrist back over but keeps hold of my hand.

"Where do you possibly have to go?" I ask, bewildered.

"Ha! That's for me to know and for you to find out!" Edward quickly kisses my hand, winks, and scampers off.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Honestly, I was going to try and use Nigma less and less, but he's so much fun to right and he and Ames have such great chemistry that I can't resist. Whovians, I hope you caught the "silence in the library" line.**

**Now, I need some advice from you guys. After I got fired from my three-year job (misunderstood a company policy), I was able to find a job as a hotel housekeeper five days later and worked that whole summer. I also found another job on campus at college, in addition to a lot of volunteering since January 2013. Unfortunately, whenever I'm home for a break (LIKE THE ONE MONTH WINTER ONE), my hotel job isn't busy enough to need me to work. I'm literally sitting on my fat ass this Christmas vacation and I DON'T LIKE IT. I'm losing money. So in March, I'm going to start looking for a summer evening job because this situation is making me nervous. My need for advice is this: should I put the job I got fired from on the applications? I wouldn't have an employment gap, and I've had jobs since then but it looks like I've only started working recently. If I put the job on there, because it's work experience, should I list as being let go (like I've done before) or because my second job was acquired so closely after being fired, should I put that I quit for a new job? The place that fired me said they would only give out dates of employment, and I hope I can believe that. What would you do in my situation, or if you've been in my situation before, what did you do?**

**Question of the Day: Which celebrity would you punch in the face?**

**Check out markiplierGAME on youtube and give him a subscribe! He's an awesome guy that does hilarious horror game let's plays.**

**Until next time! Merry Christmas!**


	33. One of My Turns

**A/N: Yeah, it's been a while, but I've mostly got my anxiety in control. At least I've uploaded sooner than expected. I'm hoping to make writing more regular from this point, but school is the most important thing to me right now.**

**The celebrities I would punch in the face include David Tennant for his fanboys/girls, Miley Cyrus, Justin Bieber, and almost any reality television celebrity.**

**I apologize for grammar mistakes ahead of time. My fingers were super derpy typing this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. ABSCOND.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Three: One of My Turns<strong>

_Oh, oh, heaven knows_

_We belong way down below._

_Oh, oh, tell her so,_

_We belong way down below._

_**~The Pretty Reckless, Heaven Knows**_

* * *

><p>I cry for a week. Christmas comes and Christmas goes. I'm numb the whole week after. It ebbs away before school starts again, and I'm finally able to act like a functional human being. I don't see Jonathan for a while, and when I finally do it's the briefest glimpse, only a passing glance. I don't pursue him and wonder if I've finally succeeded in chasing him off by making him the target of my most radical emotions and overreactions. I don't blame him for it, but I miss the company.<p>

But the worst part of it all, the very worst part, was the day I came home to tell Mom the news. She took one look at my face, held up her hand to stop my words, and told me, "I know." She. Knew. The tears sparkling in her green eyes gave her away. Come to find out, she had known about Dad for four years and never told me. Unlike when I found out about her and Falcone, this time I understood. I'm not sure why but I did. It's difficult to remember someone absent from your life since you were twelve. It hits you hard initially and then fades to a dull, constant ache in your chest that disappears just enough when you are distracted.

Yes, I'm missing Dad. But I'm missing Jonathan just as much if not more. This time, I'm sure I blew it.

For this school year we both got lockers near each other again, and somehow we manage to avoid each other the first few weeks back. As for lunch, I sit at our usual table, but he's nowhere to be found so I'm usually alone and watching the dreary environment outside the front doors.

Considering this is the last semester I'll be spending with Jonathan, the last few months I'll see him in my life, I should be apologizing and making amends. _All right then. I will._ I make the decision right there to make things better. My first trick is finding him. Jonathan can be goddamn elusive when he wants to be.

I get up from my table and leave the lunchroom to search for my lost friend. The library would be too predictable for him, but I really don't know where else to look. I twist my arm to look at Dad's watch; it tells me I have fifteen minutes before class starts. On a thought, I unclasp the timepiece from my wrist and let it slide off into my hand. I'll need this. It has been and will continue to be symbolic.

I check the library anyway. He isn't there.

This is a very similar situation to one I experienced with him a while back. My pulse picks up a little as I jog through the hallways, receiving funny looks from people who turn to watch. My legs take me to the farthest part of the school. I slow to a walk as the abandoned classroom comes into view.

All the old familiar places. As per usual, the classroom is dark. I can't tell if anyone's in it. My eyes strain as I sit down on the bench opposite the door. I have ten minutes until class.

"You're not supposed to be there," a voice calls up the hall. I ignore it.

Murmuring and loud whispers start to drift out. They leak from the room. Slowly, slowly, the noises grows louder.

A howl, like the scream of a dying rabbit.

A raised voice, getting closer to the door. One I barely recognize. "Be a good little lab rat, Paul."

The classroom door bangs open and takes me by such surprise that I marvel at my ability to keep from going kamikaze and punching Paul in the no-no square as he comes sprinting out of the room and up the hallway, squealing with eyes wide in terror. My head turns to watch his mad escape and whips back around as Jonathan appears in the doorway, radiating power.

My heart leaps into my throat as I jump off the bench. Jonathan is gaunt, with steely shining eyes, taut skin, and limp hair even longer and greasier than usual. His skin is breaking out again. Stressed? His blue laser eyes fall on me, and I'm frightened because he looks at me like he doesn't know who I am. His aura is so dark, so overpowering. What exactly has he been doing to Paul?

I quiver. "Jonathan?" I ask tentatively.

My small voice brings him back to reality as he blinks at me with some recognition. "Ames." That aura shrinks, returns to normal.

It's the first time I've heard that cool, even voice in weeks. Everything spills out as my lips flap senselessly—I'm sure I've made a complete idiot of myself, babbling apologies and half-witted excuses. Still aware of the situation with Paul, I push it to the back of my mind to inquire about later while my mouth runs of its own accord with no brain attached. My instinct urges me on to apologize and make things the way they were.

Amused by my rambling, Jonathan raises his hand as a signal to leave it be. "Ames, consider what I've studied. I know how humans react when distressed."

I find myself feeling very silly, and blood rushes to my face. "I thought you were avoiding me. I thought I scared you off."

Jonathan takes the slightest step toward me and softens his voice just a tad. "I was waiting for you to approach me. I expected you would when you were ready and recovered. I was beginning to wonder if you would start to associate me with negative stimuli."

His words fade as my sweaty hand grips my dad's watch. The metal is slowly warming to my body temperature and the hard ridges cut into my palm. Why this sudden sensitivity toward me? This is not the Jonathan I used to know, and I'm not sure if I like the change. He's so…unlike himself. And what I still don't understand is the entire fiasco with Paul. I don't believe that whatever Jon's doing to him is because of _me_. To keep him away from _me_. That can't be it. While Jonathan stands there analyzing my psyche, I'm staring at my feet with my eyebrows furrowed, trying to understand our relationship and the whole situation. Why?

I close my eyes and pray for strength as my hand sticks to Dad's watch. Not quite hearing what Jonathan is saying, I patiently wait for him to finish talking. I'm so worried about fixing things between us. Even if he understands my uncontrollable emotions, I need to tell him I'll always be sorry for it and that I'll try to refrain from it in the future. To say it all, I'm giving him what I have left of my father.

"Ames?"

I look up and stare intensely into his bright blue eyes. The dim light in the hallway glints off his owlish glasses. "Here." I close the distance between us and reach for his hand. He jerks back. _There's the Crane I know._ I persist and go for it again, hoping furiously that I don't have to chase him around the school. I manage to catch the sleeve of his gray turtleneck sweater and tug his arm toward me, quickly closing my thick, slightly damp hand over his cool slender one.

Jonathan goes rigid, like a corpse, while I try to ignore the small tingles I feel in our contact. I swallow and tell myself I'm imagining them. "Jon, I'm giving you something. Something very important. It's all I have left of him, but I want to prove to you that I'll never treat you like that again for something that isn't your fault." I gently turn his hand palm-up and place my father's watch in it.

His eyes widen past his initial shock of me daring to touch him as he realizes what I've given him. I try to put up a stony façade, but giving Jonathan the last part of my father to show how much he means to me still takes part of my soul.

I don't think Jonathan notices because he's extremely focused on the watch I just gave him. He knows what it is. "Ames, I can't—"

"—take it. Please. I know it's in good hands. I need you to understand that I'm sincere." Maybe I'm being a bit dramatic, maybe I'm not. The situation seems right for now.

To my surprise, he doesn't argue or try to give it back. He's probably incredibly stunned by the gesture. I watch him sweep back his greasy hair and slip the watch over his wrist. He quickly resizes it and watches it settle over his prominent bones. I bet he's never had something of this value before. "I don't know what to say," he admits. I realize I haven't specified if he's keeping it permanently or for a certain period of time.

I crush my feelings; it's best if I shove them down for now. "Jonathan Crane doesn't know what to say," I tease to lighten the mood.

With one glance, he snaps back to his usual cold, snarky self and opens his mouth to deliver a cutting retort, but the school bell rings to let us know our time is up. I have the audacity to wink at him before we hustle off in different directions, just before the hallways flood with people.

* * *

><p>I see that antique watch on his wrist every day for the next month, and at the same time it's a painful reminder that our remaining time together is slowly dwindling. Dad's death is still on my mind, but now it's to remind me of what kind of person I can become if I let my emotions take over. Yes, it still hurts, but I can move on if I try.<p>

Jonathan and I fall back into our familiar routine. Lunch together, talking in the parking lot after school. We've even taken to sticking short notes into each other's lockers again, though it's extremely rare.

One day at the beginning of February, I walk into the school and past the main office, which has one of its sliding windows open, enabling me to hear the workers chattering away.

I hear, "Paul Rubin" uttered and stop in my tracks. It's Rhonda, swiveling in her desk chair and yammering away to a coworker. I listen hard.

Paul Rubin…in…juvenile…detention. I resist the urge to scream, _PAUL RUBIN IS IN JUVIE?!_ Theft and assault. Shocker. I grin to myself and scurry away, waiting for the hours to pass so I can tell Jonathan over lunch. I wonder if he's got anything to do with this.

At lunch, I set my tray full of green bean casserole down with a plastic-sounding smack. Jon's so engrossed in the book he's reading that he jumps at the noise. I place my hands on the table, lean forward with a strange smile, and quickly state, "Paul's gone."

Jonathan's attention returns coolly to his book. "So he is."

However, I spot the barest lines of mirth in his face. His full lips are pressed together in a taut line, but it's there. I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. "Do you know something about this?"

"Why do you ask?" he questions, not looking at me.

"Because it looks like you're about to start snickering your arse off. What gives?"

No answer. Typical.

I try staring at him intensely from across the table. Nothing. I try egging him on with a few words. Nope. Eventually I give up on getting anything out of him and pick at my casserole while he inhales the pages of his incredibly thick book like air. As he goes to turn a page, his sweater sleeve hikes up enough for me to see Dad's watch nestled comfortably on the underside of his wrist, as if it belongs there. I smile to myself. _He wears it the way I did._ The unconventional way. He's going to run out of psychology books to read soon. Our library's selection, though generous, is limited in some areas, such as ones for those preparing to enter a mental health profession. I want to help him out and do more for him in any way I can. He is, after all, my friend. I care about him too much. It almost hurts to know he doesn't quite see me the same way, but it wouldn't be in his character to. He respects me only as a human being.

Books could be the way to his soul. An idea hits me. The Gotham Community Library. Maybe renting out certain books for him would make him appreciate me as more than a human being.

_Jonathan, what am I to you?_

Before he reaches his locker at the end of the day, I'm there first, slipping a note into the crack. The first note in a while.

_Jonathan, I see you're low on books.  
><em>_Would you like me to get you some?  
><em>_Ames_

I spy him striding down the hallway and run out of sight. Jogging, I burst through the front doors into the cool February air. Our Gotham weather is so touchy. It was in the 40's last week. Back down to the teens again. I hug my jacket closer to my body and kick some powdered snow off my shoes as the wind bites my cheeks.

Jonathan walks out into the parking lot a few minutes later. I wait patiently, just in case he has something to say in response to my note. He draws nearer to me, evens out with me, and keeps walking to his junky old car, but he does say something as he goes by.

"Yes," he mutters. I stare at his back and see my small note clutched in his graceful hand. I grin. _Will do, _I answer in my head.

When I'm off work that Saturday, I jot down a few call numbers for books Jonathan might possibly be interested in, the topics of psychopharmacology…and fear. I feel a little uneasy checking out books on the latter subject, but it really seems to be his main area of interest. I nab a cart and make my way back to the shelves with an ominous feeling saying the books are going to be very, very big.

Twenty minutes later, I'm stumbling up to the front desk with three gargantuan tomes. I'm literally staggering under their weight. The older woman at the desk gives me a sour look as I pull out my library card and hand it to her. In the brief pause that follows, Mr. Kipling ambles up and compliments me on "my" reading selections. I don't want to tell him they're for a friend for the sake of keeping the proud look on his face.

By the time I reach the truck, my arms are trembling and I can't feel my legs. I pant as I balance the books on my thigh and free a hand to pull open the passenger-side door. "If _I _can't carry these, how the hell does _Jonathan_ manage?" I wonder aloud as I dump them in the seat. Maybe I'm pathetic. I get into the driver's seat and turn the radio on to some Billy Joel.

Should I give these to Jonathan when I get back or what? I wouldn't mind going to his door again, especially since Geraldine Crane has apparently been out of commission. Would it be safe to go to his house?

I make my decision subconsciously as I turn onto the familiar gravel road. I pass my own house as I slowly, slowly crawl toward the Cranes' driveway. _Not sure if I want to do this… I could turn around, right here, right now._

Nope.

Black Jack sounds thunderous in the quiet countryside as I pull up the Cranes' driveway. Just like the last time I was here, the old house looms ahead of me ominously. I swallow and cut the engine. Why does the thought of his grandmother scare me shitless?

Humming a reassuring tune under my breath, I stumble out the driver's seat and shut the door quietly behind me. As I get the gigantic books from the other side, I notice that Geraldine's green car has been driven minimally; it normally leaves every Sunday but not as often as before. The tire tracks in the driveway aren't deep.

My shoulders burn under the weight I'm carrying, and my comforting humming grows louder as I scramble up the icy lawn to the door. I slip to my knees once, shake it off, and climb the small set of steps to the house. Will I ever go inside? I swallow and knock after I set the books down on the step.

Nothing. No stirring from within.

…the heck? Someone ought to be home. Both cars are in the driveway.

I knock again, shivering in the sharp cold. And again. And again.

"Hello!" I yell at the door. I raise my hand to knock one last time. The door opens violently. "AHH!" I stumble backward and fall onto my rump on the stone step, which just agitates me. Wincing, I peer upward, fully expecting to see Geraldine hovering above me with foam at her mouth, but Jonathan stands in the doorway instead.

"Hi," he greets me suspiciously, cocking his head to the side.

"Jonathan!" I squeak. "I was expecting your grandmother." I start to push myself up from the concrete step, and to my surprise, Jonathan hooks his hand in my elbow and hoists me to my feet with a shocking amount of strength for his lanky frame. I find myself blushing as he releases me; the place in my elbow is warm long after he lets go. _What is happening?_

"I'm not her." He straightens his glasses.

I scratch my head and look at my feet. "No, you're not." I meet his eyes. "How is she? I haven't heard her in a while."

Jonathan doesn't answer. Instead, he scrutinizes me, and asks, "What are you doing here?"

Hesitantly, I point to the books resting between us on the step, still in the place I placed them. "I rented these out from the library for you. I know our school is kind of limited so I got you ones in your interest areas. They're due back at the Gotham Community Library a month from today." Chuckling, I add, "They're a bit heavy for me to keep a grip on."

But not for him apparently. I watch openmouthed as Jonathan bends over and lifts the three books with ease up to his chest. _I can't even…_

"Soo…I'll see you in school on Monday, yeah?" I ask timidly. "Let me know when you're done with those. I can return them and get more." I crook up the corner of my mouth into a half-smile.

Jonathan, only a couple inches shorter than me now, bends in slightly, catches my gaze, and firmly says, "Thank you." Full lips pressed together, he leans back, head held high, and backs into his house. The door closes behind him and I'm left standing on the step in the cold with a look of bewilderment on my face.

"What's changed about you?" I murmur to the closed door. "Jonathan…" I turn around and walk toward my truck. He's more comfortable, more self-assured. Almost confident in himself. I guess as a senior in high school, he was bound to grow out of his antisocial complex eventually.

As a psychiatrist, he would have to.

* * *

><p>It's shortly after that when Jonathan begins to list fears off the top of his head. Every day.<p>

"Honestly, it's astounding what people are afraid of," Jonathan speaks in his own enthusiastic way. "Caligynephobia, the fear of beautiful women. Heliophobia, the fear of sunlight. Lachinophobia, the fear of vegetables. Ornithophobia is the fear of birds." He gives me a look.

I scowl right back. "That's right; you've seen it," I say scathingly.

He ignores my tone and powers on. "Aulophobia is the fear of flutes. Linonophobia, the fear of string. Xanthophobia is the fear of the color yellow."

"I'm terrified of the color of your sweater," I mutter under my breath at his mustard-colored monstrosity. The barb bounces off him harmlessly. "If you're trying to impress me, you've succeeded. I already know you're smart." I try to not let my irritation show. "Say, do you happen to have a photographic memory?" I already know the answer, but I want to hear it from him.

"Why yes, I do," he states, sitting up a little straighter than usual. So many things make sense.

I stare. It's different, him being comfortable in his own skin, but it's positive as well. Over the past few weeks, the bullying against him has slowed to a near standstill. As have the rumors about us. Old news, I suppose. It never bothered either one of us anyway. Maybe it did last year, but this year, not so much. Everyone seems a little frightened of him actually.

The list of fears grows longer day by day as Jonathan mutters them, eyes shining and low voice passionate with rising excitement. As his knowledge expands, I fuel it by returning the books and giving him new ones. Occasionally, Jonathan hands me a list of volumes to look for.

_I feel like I'm creating some sort of mastermind_, I think one day as I fork over the next stack of library books. His sweater sleeve slides back enough for me to glimpse Dad's watch on his thin wrist once again, and I'm nearly positive he hasn't gone a day without wearing it. I'm hit with a crippling sadness, the hole in my heart tearing open and mourning for my father.

Blinking back tears, I rise suddenly from the lunch table and make a beeline for the girls' restroom. Jonathan looks after me with a mildly disturbed expression. I ignore the red paper hearts on the bathroom stall doors reminding me that Valentine's Day is this week and that I'll be forever alone. I slide into a stall, sit down on the toilet, and let the tears drip. I haven't grieved in a long time. A few minutes later, the bell tells me the lunch period is over and classes are starting again. I get up and walk out to find Jonathan no longer sitting at the table.

The rest of the week soars by, Valentine's Day comes and goes, and Jonathan and I keep our routine Nothing really changes, except one small thing.

Sundays. I've subconsciously started taking note. Geraldine's car used to leave every Sunday. Now it's every other Sunday. Then it so happens that her car doesn't leave for church on Sundays at all. As the weather slowly changes from winter to spring, I stand outside and watch.

It's not until the beginning of March that I address the issue. I do it through a note in Jonathan's mailbox.

_Jonathan,  
><em>_Where's your grandmother?  
><em>_Ames_

I never get a response.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm trying so hard to pick up the pace of this story without making it forced. Am I doing all right? I really want to move this relationship beyond high school. I want Ames and Jonathan to be distant yet close. The going is getting tough now.**** Short chapter, I know.**

**IMPORTANT QUESTION; I REALLY NEED YOUR HELP. I'm drawing complete blanks on what Ames' career should be someday. I'm stumped, so I want to ask your opinion on this matter. What can you picture Ames doing in the future?**

**Question of the Day: What is your OTP? I know this is a doozy.**

**Check out markiplier on YouTube and give him a subscribe! Beautiful human and an awesome "Let's Player."**


	34. Clear as Mud

**A/N: I'm still alive! Sorry for the delay; it's a little bit longer chapter this time around. I hope people are still here to read it. Had a few summer classes and severe anxiety issues this summer so it was tough finding time to write. College starts next week, so I'll be just as slow with the next update. I'm apologizing in advance for any grammatical screw-ups or if this is absolutely terrible. It was a beast to write.**

**Thank you for ALL the reviews! I'm shocked there are still so many; I would be happy with just one at this point.**

**My OTP is tough to choose, but I'm willing to bank on Zutara. Either that or Clara/Doctor (any of them).**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing in the comics nor in Nolanverse Batman. Or any lyrics and songs that are used. Off you pop.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Four: Clear as Mud<strong>

_I'm creeping back to life._

_My nervous system all awry._

_I'm wearing the inside out._

_**~Pink Floyd, Wearing the Inside Out**_

* * *

><p>"Ames?"<p>

"Hm?"

"Put down your book."

"Nah."

"Put down your book and look at me."

I reluctantly set my copy of _Cujo_ aside on the couch and look my dear mother in the face. "What?"

"I know you don't tell me about school, but I know your prom is in two weeks"

Piss. She knows. "I'm not going." I pick up my Stephen King novel again. Yes, I'm that kind of girl. I hear Mom heave a heavy sigh but choose to ignore it as I finish the line I was reading and turn the page. I experience a small pinch of guilt as I realize I do nothing but stomp down on what could be making my mother happy. It's my senior year, my last semester to boot, and I'm finding it harder to care about what I do in high school. "I didn't go last year, and you didn't say anything about it then."

She lets that go. "It's a high school experience that you won't get to have again. I'm pretty sure with your empty track record you won't be getting married. So when else will I see you in a pretty dress?"

I wince. Ouch. "Rude," I remark, my eyes moving to the adjoining page. She's probably right. "It's not like I have anyone to go with. I'd have to drag them kicking and screaming." I swallow pathetically.

A pause. "What about that Jonathan boy?"

I choke on my spit.

"He seems to be the only friend you have," she continues.

Wheezing, I gargle out, "You don't know him at all!" The thought of Jonathan with his round glasses and long hair in a tuxedo is nearly impossible to conjure up. Once I manage to, I almost send myself into a fit of laughter.

Mom pouts as she drums her fingers on her slim thigh. "Why not?"

I smile painfully. "He's the coldest and stuffiest person I know. No chance."

She doesn't let the topic expire for another ten minutes. I'm forced to shake her off by going outside into the night spring air and sitting on our front step. I rest my head in my hands, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyelids. I see the blackest black before my eyelids start to throb. Unfortunately, the topic of our discussion is something that wants to stay in my head.

Jonathan, not the prom. I could care less about that hogwash. Jonathan and I are a problem. With a month and a half left in our senior year, we don't have much time left together. In the time we've had, I still, STILL, have no idea what we are. I've asked myself a thousand times.

A warm night breeze rustles my hair.

Are we mere acquaintances? Friends? Saviors? Romantic interests? As for the last one, most people might think so. He doesn't.

…do I?

When I'm with him, I'm happy. Does that count? I show my fullest range of emotions with him. His snarkiness and cold demeanor, both of which can be irritating at times, I do like. I admire and fear his wit, intelligence, and passion for the human mind. His eyes are gorgeous and his face is pretty, and he's not as short as he used to be. We are cruel and kind to each other in turn. For some reason, he is what I think about most of the time, even if not romantically.

What I suddenly realize is that when I'm thinking about him, my mouth slips into a smile. Like it has now. Startled, I make it melt away as I let out an exasperated hiss.

Well holy shit. I have a crush on Jonathan Crane.

_Friend crush,_ I correct myself. I wouldn't call it romantic in the slightest. I want to be with him, but I don't want to be _with_ him. I've never once dreamed of couply things like cuddling or holding hands. For us, that would be utterly wrong. God, it's taken me this damn long to admit I've been feeling _any_ kind of attraction to him, and I can't even say it's romantic. It's hard to explain; it's almost as if Jonathan has the power to repeatedly cast me away and draw me in.

He's never forced me to be who I'm not, he listens to my ramblings even if he rolls his eyes at them, and he shared some of the most intimate details of his life with me, and I, with him. It's safe to assume for both of us that's a first.

Everything I'm thinking and feeling is foggy, like powdered milk being spilled into clear water. I don't know what I want anymore, from him or myself. At least that itchy feet thing from a couple weeks ago stopped.

My butt has fallen asleep on the cold step. Standing up, I furiously slap out the pins and needles that prick me. At the same time, I gaze off into the distance at the Crane house. One light is on where his bedroom is and the rest of it, terrifyingly dark.

I'm awfully tempted to loiter on the lawn and throw rocks at his window, but it's practically midnight. I'll leave him be. _There you are, wanting to do the teasing, flirting thing again._

A constipated sounding groan pours from my throat as I scold myself. _Foolish girl, would he really accept you if he knew what you were thinking or what you felt for him? You would be thrown out of his life._

Accurate. I need to avoid screwing up; I'll keep my mouth shut. The hardest part is going to be acting natural around Jonathan, as well as keeping Mom off my arse about prom. It's going to suck having prom shoveled into our faces every moment at school by my fellow students. Thank the stars we only have less than two months to go until it's all over.

As I turn to go back inside, a crow shrieks in the distance I shiver. I haven't heard a single one of them for a few weeks. One caw leads to another, and before long, it escalates into a hoard frenzy that sends goosebumps skittering up my body. Rubbing my upper arms, I furiously hope this isn't a bad omen.

* * *

><p>"Just make her shut up already," I hiss under my breath. My complaint drifts across the table to Jonathan, who glances up from his books and mediocre spaghetti. He too practically cringes at the scene taking place in the cafeteria. "Please, can't I throw my garlic bread at her?"<p>

"Be my guest."

I don't have the balls. Summer snagged a nomination for prom queen, probably at the expense of her little clique. She's campaigning, and the teachers aren't doing jack shit about it. Summer is perched on Craig's shoulder with a megaphone, wearing a cheerleading uniform and swinging her perfectly styled blonde hair around.

I'm also happy to see the majority of the cafeteria wrinkling their noses in disgust. In fact, the only ones interested in the campaign seem to be her clique and foaming-at-the-mouth fanboys. _Attention seekers…_ What I wouldn't give to see her tumble from Craig's broad shoulders to the floor. They've stationed this little party right outside the restrooms.

Summer lets out a high-pitched giggle into the megaphone when Craig nibbles on her lean, tanned thigh. "Can you not?" I gag.

"What?" Crane asks, attention back on his reading.

"You don't want to know," I groan. I think the teachers are trying to do something but they're being blocked off by the barricade of high school guys. They don't stand a chance.

Jonathan has little concern to or interest in anything outside his books. I mean, I like reading too, but I don't think I could read what he does and absorb it to boot. And so much of it! _It's amazing really…_ Shit. Am I drooling? I don't think so. He's too busy with his nose in his book to notice. I'm not sure if it's one from the library. "What are you reading that's so interesting anyway?"

"Psychopharmacology. I thought you would expect that by now," Jonathan responds coolly.

I raise my eyebrows. "Again? How many books is that now?"

He ignores me as per usual and continues, "Or a least, I'm trying to read. It's difficult with the uproar."

"Then why don't you do something about it?" I challenge.

He snorts. "It's obviously bothering you more than me. That's your business."

"One: I don't have the guts. Two: as much as I would love to, there are too many people watching. But, depending on how you look at it, there are also a lot of people involved. Would anyone notice?" I'm proud of my logic, but wait…are we just plotting to _hurt_ someone? "They wouldn't be able to pick out who did it."

Both of us sit in silence for a while. Indeed, putting an end to all the commotion would make eating my spaghetti more appealing. However, ten minutes pass, and I could swear we both forget about the idea until Summer's high-pitched giggle slowly drives us even more insane, as do the catcalls and wolf whistles. Was I honestly friends with this girl not even a year ago? With only ten minutes left in the lunch period, more people are watching blankly and fewer are scarfing their food.

I'm starting to give myself a headache from rolling my eyes so much.

"Excuse me," Jonathan says, suddenly standing from our table. I watch in fascination as he finally and nonchalantly makes his way over to the restrooms, going right behind Summer's display.

What happens next happens so quickly and smoothly that even I, paying attention, almost miss it. Jonathan glides slickly behind the group, and he slides something silver and shiny out of his sweater sleeve. Before I can think, Craig howls and lurches to the side. Summer shrieks, wobbles one way, and totters another, waving her arms about wildly. For a moment, it looks like she's managed to steady herself.

She falls. Jonathan is nowhere to be seen.

I stand up as everyone else gasps, but as fortune would have it, she manages to catch the shoulder of one of her clique members on the way down. I rush forward to be stopped short by Jonathan coming out of the bathroom, casually observing the action. Summer has been dismantled enough that she won't start up again with so little time left for lunch. We're both close enough to see Summer pouting and chewing out Craig. Craig has shirt hoisted above his lower back and is cursing up a storm. "I got stabbed! Someone stabbed me!" he howls.

I squint and can see a line of tiny red puncture wounds in his beefy lower back. "What did you do?" I mouth at Jonathan. He gestures at our lunch table and we sit back down. Discreetly, he places a fork back onto his tray with a delicate hand.

I'm unsure if I should be concerned with the obvious violence, laugh at the notion of a jock like Craig being unmanned with a fork, or be impressed with his gall "Why?"

"Annoyances," is all he says. I shake my head in wonder. We get a few suspicious looks as the personal pep rally swaggers by us when the bell rings. "Keep it flowing, Craig," Jonathan says evenly. "Prevent the infection by making it bleed."

"Nerd," Craig sneers.

Jonathan adjusts his glasses as if to say, "Yes, that's me. What of it?" His confidence warms me. Bullied for years, and he hasn't let it take over him. Add his grandmother's abuse on top of it and him having to take care of the very woman who beat him… His mental stronghold must be outstanding. I've never known another human like him, which is part of the reason why I'm so drawn to him. I don't think he has a copy on this planet. I still haven't gotten any response on what happened to his grandmother, though I'm sure he's behind it. The thought doesn't necessarily bug me; after all, she had it coming.

Jonathan and I aren't going to be together much longer, and other than the occasional rendezvous at the grove, we haven't been together a lot outside school. Hell, I don't even know if that's what he wants, even though I want to see him more before the school year ends. I'm assuming too much to act like he gives a damn about me, but he hasn't told me to get lost yet. I can't screw up again.

Because Jonathan pretty much has free reign for whatever reason, he still hasn't broken up our after-school meetings. I'm pleased it hasn't stopped, and I know I don't always initiate it because sometimes, Jon _does_ seek me out. Today, he's already waiting for me, leaned up against Black Jack with his arms crossed over his chest. He must want the next round of books. He literally does nothing other than read. "Hey, stranger," I greet him.

He smirks.

"More books? Is that all you want?" I automatically open the passenger side door.

"I'm not allowed to talk to you if I _don't_ want something?" Jonathan reaches over and quickly shuts the door. I snatch my hand out of the way before it gets crushed. He is still surprisingly inconsiderate.

I nearly blush. "Well, no."

"But you always question it."

I shrug a shoulder. "You can't blame me."

"Maybe I can."

That snark. "Fine," I huff. "And here I thought we might talk about your violent impulses."

"Keep your voice down," Jonathan hisses. I flinch. Sometimes it's tough not to get pulled into our own world

"Sorry," I say flippantly.

"We discussed it at lunch; I'm not sure why you want to continuously rehash old issues."

I kick a rock with my shoe and send it skittering across the cement. "Because regular, nice people don't go to the extent of jabbing people with forks in hopes of making someone else shut up."

"I'd like to point out that you were complaining as well." Sunlight flashes across the lenses of his glasses as he rolls up his sweater sleeves in the heat. His thin, pale arms are flecked with dark hair and free of bruises. I catch myself staring at his glowing skin when Jonathan clears his throat loudly. _What's wrong with me?_

"You know what? I'll leave it alone," I say. "There's actually another thing I'd like to talk to you about. Or ask you, I guess…"

Jonathan's face becomes wary as it always does every time I have a request for him. "Yes, Ames?"

_Goosebumps when he says my damn name._ Here it goes. "As I'm positive you know, prom is this Friday."

Jonathan's expression morphs into a look of pure horror. "Ames. No. Are you really inviting me to go to such a trivial event? I can't even begin to explain my distaste for it."

"NO! No," I hurriedly protest. "No, I never would." It was the reaction I was expecting. Eat it, Mom. I bite a nail on my right hand. "If you'll let me finish, I was going to suggest that the two of us meet up and do our own thing before the school year ends, and then I won't see you or bother you again. It seems like our notes stopped and we only exchange books and interact at school. Jonathan, it's not enough." I freeze, hoping I haven't given too much away. I never meant to spill out such a substantial amount.

To my relief, he doesn't address my fears and takes it all in stride. "And here I thought you were being a typical, silly girl."

I shake my head at him. "After all we've been through, you know me better. Anyway, I want you to meet me at Kerrigan Park at 8:30 Friday night. I just want to talk. Honest."

The request hangs in the air for what seems like an eternity. Then slowly, he nods. "It's the park near the butcher's shop, correct?"

"Yeah."

He scours my face with those eyes, as if he thinks I have some hidden agenda. "All right." There's a cold softness in his gaze, like pity.

"So you'll meet me?" I allow myself to get hopeful.

Jonathan raises a shoulder into a half-shrug. "If anyone else asked, Ames, perhaps not, but I have no reason not to." Just like that, he spins around on his heel and strides back to his station wagon. His unpredictability is endless. This leaves me with nothing to do but get inside Black Jack, go home, and wait for Friday.

The rest of the week crawls. When I get home from school that day, I do my best to ignore Mom's disappointed looks. I must be a failure for having no interest in prom. I read more Stephen King, in my room of course, to pass the remaining hours. Once the clock hits six forty-five, I eat a small, silent supper with Mom before trotting back upstairs. Call me silly, but I'm going to try to freshen up for tonight. Maybe I'm trying to impress Jonathan or maybe I'm doing it for me.

Gingerly, I raise my nervous hands to my face and sniff them. "My hands smell like potatoes," I mutter aloud. Wow, Ames. Random.

Pulling out my dresser drawers, I gaze wistfully at a Guns N' Roses shirt but pass over it in favor of a peach blouse that will fail to flatter my less-than-delicate structure. I throw a pair of jeans on and because the clock says it's half past seven, I decide to leave.

I hope to the stars he'll be there.

I drive to Kerrigan Park slowly. It's not quite dark yet, and my heart is thundering like a war drum in my chest. I have no idea what to expect tonight. I'm still shocked he wants to "hang" with me. There's a funny mentality to it, I suppose; while the rest of the high school is showing off or getting laid on prom night, the two oddballs are elsewhere in their own world. I'm aware that we probably aren't the only two skipping, but it feels like it. Especially considering we don't exactly associate with anyone outside of ourselves.

As I cruise through Gotham, I hum along to a Foreigner song that graces the radio. Every so often as I pass a street, the blue and red flashing lights of a police car stain my eyelids. Later in the evening like this, crime usually spikes, but oddly enough, I could swear the city becomes almost peaceful. Less traffic, fewer people traipsing out and about.

Kerrigan Park is located near one of the quieter streets of the city, eerily so. The name itself means "dusky" or "dark," and it's true. The entire entrance and majority of the park are engulfed in shadow at night and in shade during the daytime. It's an Irish name. "Ames," my name, is French, and I always thought it odd considering my father was of Irish descent. I guess my parents didn't want to showcase it.

I also smile to myself. As I had researched at the library one day, my name also means "friend."

Pulling into the parking lot, I spy Jonathan's station wagon on the far end and settle next to it. I cut the truck's engine and sit in my seat for a brief moment to collect my thoughts. I still my trembling hands, slowly exit my truck, and lock the door behind me. To my frustration, I have to struggle against being frozen by my nervousness. Why do I feel so afraid? This isn't that different from our meetings at the grove.

Silly girl. Stupid girl.

Jonathan is nowhere near his car. I scratch my head. He must be in the park already. I change directions and walk toward the entrance. It's dark, a tad creepy, and unsettling as well as soothing. Rubbing my arms, I step into the shadows.

There's a large fountain at the center of the park and a tall statue of a stag perched in the middle of it. The lighting throughout the park is dimmer than any other I have been in, probably to uphold its name. I walk up to the fountain and sit on one of the many benches in the area, and I bask in the eerie gold glow illuminating the walkway and surrounding trees.

"Of course, how stupid am I? Teen girl, even unattractive, sitting in a creepy yet comforting park alone at night is an opportunity for trouble," I ponder out loud. I should've reconsidered, but why wouldn't Jon have waited for me on the outside?

I sigh. "Jonathan, where are you?"

"You called?" a chilling voice answers from behind me.

I jump out of my skin and bite back a scream so all that comes out is a garbled sort of honk. "Cheese and rice, Jon! I'll end you if you ever sneak up on me like that again!" My fuming does nothing to cover up my quaking voice or shivering heart, so I'm sure he can hear it all. Holy adrenaline rush… I try to shake off the cold pinpricks that ghost over my body as a result.

Jonathan's spindly frame comes into sight, and he looks quite mysterious with the dewy glow of the lampposts drenching him in orange. I can't necessarily see the eyes behind his glasses, but I sure as hell can guess there's a glint in them.

I jab a finger up at him. "I _know_ you enjoyed that." I feel very small sitting on this bench below him.

"You tend to call me that when you're not thinking."

"Call you what, exactly?" I frown, trying to remember.

"'Jon.' I don't mind it as much as I used to. It doesn't have meaning; it's simply an observation of your laziness to call me by my proper name."

I'm sure my face is flaming red; the trickling of the fountain seems to be mocking me. "Bad habit, I suppose." I won't explain any further than that. I rise from my seat. "Would you like to take a walk?" I gesture vaguely at the path in front of us.

"I would like that to an extent." And then, so quickly I nearly don't see it, Jonathan gives me a once over. It might have been flattering if he wouldn't have asked, "What are you wearing?" The way he says it sounds as if he has found me eating human remains and is asking me what I'm eating.

"Just a blouse," I mutter, suddenly feeling dumb for dressing up. With an ugly sweater and khaki slacks, he doesn't look any different. His sleeves are rolled up again and his collar unbuttoned, as it is getting warmer out.

I wish I had brought a jacket to cover up with now. Should have gone with the Guns N' Roses shirt.

My embarrassment aside, we leave the safe light of the fountain area behind as we take our walk down the path around the shadowed park. It's silent for a while, and the padding of our shoes on the cobblestone echoes. I count six lampposts that we've passed without saying anything. As the seventh one nears, I decide to blab.

"So Jonathan, can I tell you something?"

He clasps his hands behind his back and raises an eyebrow. "The past has shown that you will tell me whether you actually have my permission or not."

I grin anxiously. "I'm not going to deny that, but to be honest? I'm scared."

Jonathan nearly stops our walk by faltering. "I know you're scared, but I haven't heard you admit it outright before."

"You've really only seen me react to birds. That's it."

"And Paul."

I'm afraid of a lot of things right now. One of my fears includes being in a dark, barely-lit park with a sort-of-crush obsessed with fear and how it affects the universe. I'm afraid of my feelings. My uncertain future. Out of the three I just listed in my head, there's only one I can actually tell him.

"I'm going to Gotham University in the fall, and yet, I have no idea what I want to do with my life."

Jonathan snorts. "Considering you were seriously thinking of acting not too long ago, why am I not surprised?"

Ouch.

"I grew up. Maybe you had influence." I notice I've unconsciously stepped closer to him and he hadn't, miraculously, increased the distance between us. "My problem is that I have too many options. I wouldn't mind getting certified as a librarian. When I was younger, I liked to imagine I was running a coffee and sandwich shop." I sigh. "I also love animals but wouldn't be able to handle birds." I pause. "Would you like me to stop?"

He's staring off into the distance. "Please, go on."

Something in his voice makes my breathing hitch, but I respect his wishes. _Ookay._ "Gotham is a piece of shit, and I'd like to expose that or help people because there will always be a place for it. If I can't have acting, journalism. To help people, social work. To be fair, I'm leaning toward that one. It feels right." I finally stop for a breath and gulp air after my longwinded speech.

Deafeningly quiet again. We pass another lamppost kicking off a copper glow. The sky is dark, and we've only been here an hour or so.

"It's a pleasant thing, hearing you use logic for once."

I fight the urge to grab Jon's arm. "Oh?"

His voice is soft but still steely and hard. "You're such an irrational creature, Ames."

"I am." A light breeze ruffles the leaves of trees on each side of the walkway, and I shiver. "You see right through me. Every time."

"You're an open book. You don't hide your emotions, and while it's a bit vexing, it's honest. I appreciate honesty."

I stop mid-step, take a few strides back, and give him a searching and nearly scathing look. "You're being very complimentary tonight, even if it is a bit backhanded."

"Am I? Or is that what your brain is perceiving and trying to tell you?"

I attempt to cover my tracks. "You know, you're probably right."

It's the second time I've made him hesitate tonight. "You're never this agreeable, Ames."

"I don't want to argue all the time. I feel like I'm having an existential crisis. My dad is dead, I'm responsible for someone else's death, and Falcone's in prison and I don't know when he'll be out; I'm sure he'll be after me when he does. Don may or may not be dead because _you_ haven't told me." I wave a finger at him, and Joe doesn't even remotely look guilty. "I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I don't know what I want anymore." My voice cracks and I veer off to the side and sit roughly on the small curb surrounding the stone path. I'm proud of myself for not crying.

After a moment, Jonathan gingerly settles next to me, his shoulder almost touching mine. The air becomes charged.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," I say miserably.

"It might be because you consider me a friend and you're an emotional girl."

Always. "What's the matter, Jon? Don't you consider me a friend?" I sound very bitter.

He focuses straight ahead, face a smooth, blank mask behind his glasses. "I suppose you're a…friend…of sorts."

I almost throw my hands into the air. "You haven't even told me where you're going to college."

He sighs in defeat. "Fine. There are very few schools in the nation that offer psychiatry programs with a focus on psychopharmacology. Gotham University is not one of them."

I look down at my feet. "Oh." What was I expecting? Of course he would want to get out of Gotham.

"Nova Southeastern University. It's in Florida. I can get my bachelors and doctorate there if the testing goes well."

I blink at the darkness around us. "Never heard of it. Good for you, I guess."

"Is there a problem?" He knows.

I shift uncomfortably. What's the point of hiding it anymore? He knows. "I'm afraid of missing you, my friend. I'm afraid. You'll be gone. Jon, I'm scared, and I don't know why." I fold my hands across my knees.

"You're a disappointment."

I can't even take a stab at what he means by that, whether it be teasing or serious, from his voice alone, so I turn my head to read his expression.

Our faces end up two inches apart. I'm suddenly very, very frightened of what might happen if I can't stop myself. His eyes are black in the faint light; any trace of blue is erased by shadow and dilated pupils. I swallow, my heart pounds, my breathing trembles, and neither one of us moves.

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><p><strong>AN: Sorry for the cliffie. I really hope no one was OOC or rushed. I should be finishing up high school life next chapter. I'll probably just brush over the college years and give a quick summary or something. I'm banking on making Ames a social worker. For the record, I know in the comics Jonathan was a teacher at Gotham University for a while, but forgive me for taking liberties with Nolanverse because that's not going to happen. I have a time crunch between when this story is taking place, the year of _Batman Begins_, and Jonathan getting a bachelors and doctorate degree whilst having some work experience at Arkham. Can't afford it. Nova Southeastern University wasn't randomly pulled out of my butt. It's a legitimate school that offers pscyhopharmacology.**

**So I'm taking a poetry class this semester. I've written about three so far, in advance, and I'm absolutely dreadful. Do any of you have hints or tips for a poetry newbie? I've never dabbled in it before.**

**Question of the Day: Going along with the previous here, what is your NOTP?**

**Check out Markiplier on YouTube and give him a sub. He's wonderful. See you all in the next chapter! Review, fave, and follow!**


	35. The Beginning is the End

**A/N: Here it is: the last of high school. JEEGUS that took forever. Thank you to all the lovely new reviewers/favoriters/ followers to this story! I had so many! Again apologies for anyone OOC. I'm trying to make Jonathan a little nicer or more open. Not sure if succeeding.**

**To answer the question from last chapter, my NOTPs are Aang/Katara and Rose/Doctor (any of them). And then some crack ships. Sorry shippers. I don't want to start a war.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own a damn thing. Everything belongs to DC Comics, Christopher Nolan, and company.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Five: The Beginning is the End is the Beginning<strong>

_Now he's gone; I don't know why._

_Until this day, sometimes I cry._

_He didn't even say goodbye._

_He didn't take the time to lie._

_Bang bang, he shot me down._

_Bang bang, I hit the ground._

_Bang bang, that awful sound._

_Bang bang, my baby shot me down._

_**~Nancy Sinatra, Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)**_

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><p>This single moment suspended in time and space could turn into either the biggest mistake or the most important moment of my life.<p>

We are going to KISS each other.

My first thought: _WHHHHHHY?!_ Why would I even consider it? It would change so much! Everything we've built would be strewn into a million pieces. Why did I let us get to this point? The most important moment of my life so far, but I'd rather not have it turn into my biggest mistake.

I blink and close my eyes, slowly pulling away. Does Jonathan know what was about to happen?

The searing look in his eyes tells me he did.

I stand up on rubber legs, and the rolling sea in my stomach makes me queasy. "Do you pity me?"

"I do." He hasn't moved.

"For being a girl."

"Yes."

"Why were you expecting me to be any different?" I clench my fists.

No answer, but I sense that he stands up as well.

"What would you have had me do to prevent it?" I don't know what I'm asking him anymore. I shouldn't have let it get this far. If I could take it all back, I would. _Don't cry. Do NOT cry._

I like him. I like him so much, and I screwed up.

Jonathan stands right behind me. "I would like to say you should have never interfered in my life. You should have avoided me like everyone else has. Stupid girl, you should have stayed away."

Those words cut me to the bone. I hang my head.

"However, I am grateful for you."

My head snaps back up. "What?" I whisper.

"We shouldn't have gotten involved. Yet, you made my life more bearable with the idiots at school and my grandmother. For that, I thank you."

So now what?

"I don't know what I want in life anymore, Jonathan. You complicated things."

"Ames, I—"

I walk away, continuing our route along the path. Jonathan doesn't. I turn my head slightly to the side and peek back behind me out of my peripherals. He's lowered himself back onto the curb and is staring off into the darkness with a pondering expression. He doesn't even seem remotely upset, unlike me. How can he be so calm? If your best friend who saw you in a previously platonic light suddenly found out you had a strange friend-crush on them, wouldn't they be a little unsettled?

_Best friend? _Only friend.

I wish Jonathan would rush and catch up to me. He doesn't, and I walk back to my truck through the darkness on my own.

Navigating through the traffic is hard. The tears in my eyes seem to magnify the colorful, bright lights of Gotham tenfold. Prom must be over because everyone's on the road. I'm distraught: angry, sad, and frustrated, mostly with myself. Emotional turbulence doesn't make for safe driving nor do the hundreds of excited and possibly already drunk students driving to parties.

"Be careful. Be. Careful." I'm not sure if I'm wishing this for my benefit or theirs.

I stop at another stoplight. There's a strange buzzing in my ears. Whether it's in my own head or I'm hearing the static of the radio station lost in this part of the city, I don't know. I jaggedly cast my glance out my window, blink away my tears, and happen to spot a black-clothed figure vanish between buildings. "Hang on a sec," I mutter, still staring. "Disappearing acts. Black clothes. Ninjas."

My attention now elsewhere, I pull forward when the green light appears and manage to maneuver into a parking spot shortly after. The hardware shop in front of me is closed. The sky starts to sprinkle the moment I set foot outside my car. I glare up at it before I take off jogging in the direction I saw the ninja disappear. My blouse becomes damp and clings to me uncomfortably.

_It's been so long since I've seen one,_ I ponder as the target buildings draw nearer. The light breeze earlier has changed to a strong wind that whips my hair around and chills me. When I reach the alleyway, I peer down it, and not to my great surprise, see no sign of the figures. Shocker. I'm too slow. I rub the stitch in my side and debate if I should go any further.

"That's too stupid, even for me." I still walk in halfway, get goosebumps in return, and back out slowly, casting my glace upward toward the rooftops. Nothing but rain there, glowing in the eerie lights. _No, no, no, no. I decided not to._ The sky opens and drenches me before I reach Black Jack. I feel heavy gain. It's time to go home. I practically dive into the driver's seat and hope fervently the heater can thaw me out.

As I enter my driveway a bit later, the lights blaring from our kitchen windows alert me to the fact that I hadn't exactly told Mom where I was going. I cringe. She's waiting.

"AMES. IRVETTE. MANSON." Her not-quite-a-screech greets me when I sheepishly step through the front door. "Where the HELL have you been?" Mom's shorter than me in height but truly towers over me when she's pissed. "Do you know how worried I've been?"

"I can imagine," I respond in a very small voice.

Her green eyes crackle. "I thought the Mob had gotten to you! Or any other rapist or sicko on the streets! Have you forgotten how much crime there is in this city?"

"I'm sorry." I'm ashamed. "I really am. I won't do it again." _That might be a lie, _I think. "I got caught in the rain, so I'm wet and freezing. I get the point. Can I change clothes now?" The light gusts from our air conditioner are causing my teeth to chatter. "I'm going to catch pneumonia." Grumbling, she steps aside, and I dart for the bathroom upstairs.

The shower steam is heavenly, and the water easily washes away my tears.

I'm shaking in my boots when I drive to school Monday. Oh, sweet jeegus.

Avoid him. I should just avoid him all day. Save myself the awkwardness. Save myself the embarrassment. Slamming Black Jack's door strengthens my resolve. "I can do this," I mumble. Less than a month to go.

The majority of the day goes well. I show up to my classes earlier than usual, I dart around the hallways like one of my ninjas because I don't want to be noticed. Hell, I even skip lunch to avoid Jonathan but immediately regret it when my stomach starts growling halfway through my last class. _I swear that wasn't a fart, _I think as the guy sitting next to me gives me an odd look.

No, the day goes well until the school day ends, and that's when I see it: Jonathan backed up against his locker and practically shooting blue lightning out of his eyes, surrounded by six jocks.

There is no doubt as to what they're doing. They're giving him one last beating before he graduates. One last harassment. I can't stand by and watch this. Still, I waver.

It only takes Jon being thrown into his locker once more and the small crowd of jocks to cheer to blow away any regrets or awkwardness I still had in me from Friday. I ball my fists and sprint down the hallway.

"HEY! Cut it out, morons!" I barrel into the wall of muscle and receive the reaction I was expecting. Snickering. Mocking laughter. My face flames red, but I place my body between Jonathan and the bullies, and I stand my ground. I have no reputation to damage with these turds. I would be his shield 24/7, protect him from a nuclear holocaust if I could.

"Man, look what we have here. It's Scarecrow's _squeeze_," one of the beefcakes sneers. The rest guffaw stupidly. My IQ is dropping just by looking at them. He's about my height with a face that appears to have been smashed into a brick wall a few too many times. "She's even uglier up close."

Jonathan stiffens. "You will not touch him," I growl.

Something whizzes past my head and clatters against the locker behind me. My left ear rings momentarily as I wildly search for the unseen projectile. It glints at me from the floor, but I can't quite make out what it is. _Oh, it's a lock…from a locker._ The dial rests on the number 18. My age. How funny. Now imagine if that would have found its target.

"You missed, man," one of the bullies chortles.

"Can't you clear out? Don't you have a football to throw around?" I bark, my knees shaking.

The doofus closest to me raises his hand. "You'd shut your mouth if you knew what's good for you, bitch." Jon is a statue behind me.

Hands on hips, I retort, "What? You gonna hit a girl unprovoked? That'll look great on your record. Good luck playing college sports with that black mark."

He opens his mouth before a male voice from the back of the group cuts him off. "Leave 'em alone, man. Why do they matter so much? It's a waste of time."

After some uncomfortable shifting, the bullies snort and disperse, shoving each other and punching arms. "Yeah, you're not so tough!" I call after them. I deflate and sink into a crouch. _That could've been a lot worse._ I wipe sweat from my forehead.

"I don't need you to protect me," Jonathan snarls.

I nearly fall back onto my rump in shock. I forgot he was back there. "I'm sorry but that's bullshit and you know it."

He steps around me and almost knocks me to the floor on his own. "You do nothing for my reputation."

Deciding my crouch is fairly dangerous especially with students spilling out from classes, I finally rise. "I'm sure your reputation can't get much worse. You never fight back, regardless if I'm there or not."

"It's not my style." I almost lose Jonathan in the crowd but manage to stay on his heels. It's increasingly difficult. I step on more than a few toes.

"Are you _trying_ to ditch me?" I huff loudly as he power walks through the front doors. He better not be pissed about Friday. That worries me. No grudges. I would like it better if the topic was never brought up, to be honest.

The sun outside glints off his glasses as Jon scowls. "I believe you were the one avoiding me today." His expression is sour. He's thoroughly annoyed. With me.

_This is it. This is where my life ends._

"Can I ask why?"

Is it just me or does he look a little pained? Is he pretending that last Friday never happened? Fine by me. "Oh, you know. Just thought I would give you space." I scratch the back of my head nervously..

"What made you think I want distance?" he questions sullenly. Jon seems genuinely unhappy.

_Sooo, are we not talking about my confession or…_ I'm relieved but uneasy about glossing over the issue. To answer his question: "Well, sometimes you act like you don't want me around," I admit. We stop next to his rusty station wagon. It's not like him to act so cold and then act so warm. _Warm_. He never does that, especially toward me, his biggest annoyance. _What's happening?_

"Your presence isn't as irritating as you think," Jon responds. He slides into the driver's seat. "Goodbye, Ames. I'll see you tomorrow."

Despite the backwards compliment, I grin like a fool while he drives away. I see him the next day and the day after that and the day after that. Just like I predicted, we pretend prom night never happened. He doesn't question the spillage of feelings. Eventually, our book exchanges stop. With so little time left for school, it no longer becomes worth it to us.

Every day, I'm happy to observe that he still wears my dad's watch. I'm fully intending on letting him keep it, in hope that he won't forget me once he starts his life.

I lean back against the tree trunk, Jonathan on the other side. We've been spending a lot more time at the grove lately. I breathe in the fresh, dusty air. I'm so glad it's spring; I'm a chickenshit when it comes to cold weather. We enjoy each other's company, and I have a question to ask him, but I don't want to shatter the still air. It's not completely still; birdsongs are present.

Jonathan sighs. "I know you want to say something, Ames. Say it."

I blush. "Well, ask."

He waits.

"Once again, Jonathan, where is your grandmother? I know she's gone; that's pretty obvious."

"Tell me what you've observed."

He's being entirely cynical now. Regardless, I start to tick off my fingers. "First off, I haven't heard the crows. Second, no bruises, cuts, or scratches on you. Third, this freedom you have to be out and about. And fourth, her car doesn't leave your house on Sunday mornings. Heaven knows she wouldn't skip Mass."

"Very good," Jonathan commends me. "You're more aware than I give you credit for."

"So yes, she's obviously gone. Where is she?"

A light sigh from behind me. "Do you want to know so badly?"

"Yes. I do."

"I disposed of her."

There it is. My suspicions are confirmed. I'm glad he can't see me because my eyes are widened in shock. _Jonathan. My Jonathan. A…_ I can't even think it, but I should _not_ be this surprised. "Disposed? Disposed how?" Actually _killed_? Only got rid of the body?

Jonathan scoffs at me. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

_Not if it makes me look any stupider,_ I think. "No, I understand." I act as if the information doesn't faze me. "I'm going to assume you won't get caught." I casually shred a blade of grass. Here we are, discussing murder like we're talking about the weather.

In my peripherals, I see Jonathan twist halfway in my direction. "Have some faith. It's untraceable."

"Getting away with murder," I mutter disbelievingly.

"You're not going to tell on me, are you?" I freeze. It's one of the few times I've heard Jonathan use a threatening tone.

I crank my upper body around the tree to glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "Of course not. The old hag had it coming. Plus, we graduate in a week. Why would I ruin your life like that?" The song from _Chicago_ is running through my head now of all things.

He grunts. "Fair."

_Also, we graduate in a week._ I frown and bite my lip. "I care for you. I'm not going to do anything to hurt you. You've been hurt enough."

A moment of silence. "Thank you."

I'm going to appreciate the time I have left with him. It's not much. "Hey, what's the time?"

"Four twenty."

I stand up and brush off my pants. "I need to get to work. Bye-bye." As I walk past Jonathan, I'm tempted to pat his head or tug his hair to see how he'll respond, but I remove some dirt from underneath my thumbnail instead. It's not worth being skinned alive. I focus so intently on the nail that I stumble when I get to the ditch before the road. Flushing, I hear him choke back laughter. _Well, I'm glad I'm so entertaining to you. _I'm smiling as I drive away.

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><p>People say the last week of your senior year is one of the slowest weeks of your life. In my case, it races by. My last day is spent avoiding the senior prank (a release of mice in the school) and thanking my teachers for a decent high school experience. It's not long before shrieks and yells fill the hallways around noon, the time we're supposed to be let out. I half-heartedly cheer with the rest of the seniors while I hunt for Jonathan among the two hundred or so of us. A couple mice flit past my feet. I hope the poor things don't get trampled. How'd they find so many mice anyway? Last year's prank involved a guy riding a motorcycle naked through the winding hallways, so I suppose this is preferable. Of course, Jon's nowhere to be found. I don't see him for the rest of the day either.<p>

I still wake up the next morning with a smile on my face. It's done. I'm finished with high school, and today, I graduate.

"I'm so proud of you," Mom says as she curls my hair. I manage to sit patiently when she applies light makeup to my face. The last time someone did this, I still worked at the cabaret. _Seems like a forever ago._ "Very proud," she repeats. "You made it."

_For once in your life, you're happy to call me your daughter._ "Thank you," is what I say instead. Mom brushes a hair away from my forehead and her eyes shine as I stand up. I'm wearing a nice, burgundy dress with poufy sleeves and black flats. I'm satisfied with my appearance.

I retrieve my gown and cap from the table and slip them on. "Maybe you should pin this down?" I suggest, pointing to the cap.

We arrive at the high school at one o'clock, an hour before the ceremony. It isn't until we've assembled for class pictures that I spot Jonathan toward the end of one of the boys' rows. His height. Of course. _He looks nice._ Someone whistles and I look at the camera and smile before the flash goes off. We're handed programs and roses, and we stand in line until "Pomp and Circumstance" begins to play. When it's time for me to walk, I pray I don't fall on my face. I'm glad I didn't wear heels. This is going to be a long ceremony.

I sit in my chair and glance at the program.

WHAT.

Jonathan is our valedictorian and has to give a speech about a class he no doubt despises. Even more interesting, _in front of people_. I've never seen him interact with anyone other than me. I'm scared for him. He hasn't struck me as a much of a public speaker.

When the time comes, to my wonder, he does fine. He leans comfortably into the microphone and his smooth voice spills out. The speech itself is pretty void of emotion, though he does include some amusing moments he's experienced at the expense of others in his psychology classes. There are no snarky remarks, no bashing of his classmates, no insulting of anyone's intelligence.

I feel eyes on me. More than one pair. One is Jonathan's, staring into my soul from the podium. The others are of my classmates and audience members who know me. I'm royally confused.

"Ames. He's talking about you," the girl to my left whispers. She looks freaked out whereas I'm honored and embarrassed as I focus on what he's actually saying.

"…she's awkward, she's ridiculous, and a bit of a drama queen. My American History classmates can attest to that." A few chuckle at the memory of _The Crucible_. Mr. Matthew Spade's laughter is easily detectable from the teachers' section. I slump down in my seat and bury my crimson face in my hands. "She started as my neighbor, and she eventually became what you call a friend." He moves on with the rest of his speech, but I'm sitting in my chair dumbfounded. _Friends._ He admitted it. Publicly and without shame. He finishes, and polite applause rewards him.

Graduation is supposed to be an emotional time, but I never shed a tear. I come close when I go to hug my mother and give her the rose; I'm more elated than anything else. It's weird to see the families of my classmates though. In the back of my mind, I'm expecting Jonathan to pull some prank and scare the shit out of us with bats or mice or dumping blood on someone. Exacting revenge on the bullies or what have you, but nothing happens. I'm not sure if I'm disappointed or relieved. Everything proceeds like it normally would. Then again, why would he want to ruin his future? Jon remains in his seat during the exchanges; he doesn't have a family member to give his rose to.

It takes some time, but the ceremony ends. I toss my cap in the air with the rest of the class and watch, entertained, as it nails someone in the head two rows up from me. I giggle and scramble to collect it before it gets lost in the growing pile. Jonathan keeps his cap firmly on his head but he instead tips it in a slight salute. I smile and fight my former classmates as I rush over to him, invading his personal space.

Without warning, I look him straight in the eyes and let him know there's no escaping this. I throw my arms around his torso and squeeze tight, giving Jonathan one hell of a hug. He doesn't reciprocate but at least he doesn't try to take my head off. I release him and beam at him brightly. He gazes at me calmly in return.

"I'll see you around," I assure him lightly. Jon doesn't flinch. Slowly, so slowly, he extends his arm and offers me the rose that he couldn't give to anyone else. I gape at it, cheeks pink.

"For me?"

"Yes," he says quietly. My heart swells in my chest as I accept it with a trembling hand, being mindful of the thorns. I've got butterflies in my stomach. Jonathan vanishes in the crowd and leaves me staring after him. I hold the rose as if it's the most precious thing in the world. I can't believe this. It's uncharacteristically and unintentionally romantic. Not taking my eyes off it, I join the rest of the class of 1994 outside the gymnasium to shake hands with well-wishers. I briefly spy Jonathan sneaking out the front doors without a second look in our direction. I clutch the rose to my chest when I get an awful sinking feeling in my stomach.

_He's sure in a rush. It's like he's running away._

When Mom and I return home, I shakily check our mailbox. My mouth is dry, more parched than the Sahara. Oh god. It's there. Dad's watch is there. _I wanted him to keep it._ Tears prick my eyeballs as I withdraw the folded piece of paper the watch rests on. A note from him. I unfold it.

_A drawn out goodbye would make things more difficult for you.  
><em>_There is nothing for me in Gotham. I hope to see you in the future.  
><em>_JC_

I feel like I'm going to throw up. I crumple the note in my fist, allowing my tears to flow free. He's gone. He left. I've been abandoned. There wasn't a chance for a proper goodbye. Even if he hopes to see me again, there are no guarantees. I feel hallowed out and yet weighted down at the same time. I should've known Jon didn't care. Was the rose given out of pity for my impending discovery? I'm so unbelievably angry.

_He's gone and I might not ever see him again._ I thought Jonathan could be cruel before. That wasn't cruel. This. THIS is cruel.

I watch his house for the next week. His car never reappears in the driveway, the lights of the house stay off, and the doors remain locked. I check every day. I'm also forced to throw the rose away as it withers and rots away, brilliant red to dull brown. The loss of Jonathan rivals the loss of Dad. I wear the watch every day, as if wearing it will allow me to feel any essence of Jonathan's skin that once pressed against it.

Mom notices my unusual silence and depressed demeanor. She imagines the reason herself. One thing's for sure: I certainly become an adult.

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><p><strong>AN: Ugh. I feel like I'm getting super repetitive these days. With content, I mean. Like I said last chapter, in the next one, I'm probably going to summarize the college/work years a little bit. Crane and Ames will meet again. I'm not going to delve directly in the waters of _Batman Begins._ They'll meet again a couple years beforehand. I want their relationship to be tumultuous once Scarecrow comes into existence. I'll try to make that a quicker process than high school was.**

**For those of you who watch _Doctor Who, _what do you think of Peter Capaldi? I ADORE him.**

**Criticism is welcome; flamers are not.**

**Question of the Day: In accordance with this chapter, what was your high school experience like? You don't have disclose anything personal. Keep what you'd like to yourself.**


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